Thaw
by IKnowThePiecesFit0114
Summary: Cato has never been able to grasp the concept of love. He's heard the word and its definition, and he could use it in a sentence if you ask him, but he's never understood or known what it truly means. Until now. And it sucks.
1. Win This Thing (Whatever the Hell It Is)

**A/N: So I don't know why I'm so hung up on the concept of Cato as mentor, but I can't help it. If you've read some of my other stuff you'll know I also like the idea of tributes training with their mentors for a few months so the plot/relationships have plenty of time to develop, and I usually have the tributes live and train separately from their district partners (so no Peeta here. I'm sorry and I totally agree with the school of thought that Peeta should not just be dismissed in Catnoiss stories, but it just didn't work for this one).**

 **Disclaimer: THG and its characters don't belong to me.**

 **Warnings: violence, sexual content, lots of nasty language**

 **Random FYI: Cato's style is classy AF. Think Idris Elba or Justin Timberlake. His cologne is basically YSL L'Homme, which I think smells divine.**

 **Enough already, let's get to the story. Thanks for reading!**

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Cato doesn't dream all that often. Mostly he either doesn't really sleep or he passes out after a night of heavy drinking.

But when he does dream, nothing's concrete. It's just colors and sounds and smells. Well, just one color really (crimson). And one sound (screaming). And one smell (iron).

There is one exception.

When he was four years old he had a terrible earache. His mother sat down in her rocking chair and coaxed him up onto her lap, and he pressed his cheek into her breastbone. She rocked lazily but steadily back and forth, back and forth, patting his back slowly, rhythmically, in time with the motion of the chair as she watched her after-dinner Capitol shows. It soothed him and he fell asleep, and when he woke a couple of hours later, his earache was gone.

Eighteen years later, he can still remember the exact rhythm of the rocking and the patting and how his mother smelled like gardenias, and sometimes he dreams of that evening.

On the nights he dreams of crimson and screaming and iron, he wakes so full of pressure he thinks he will burst. The last four years have taught him that he can relieve that pressure if he holds a lighter to his flesh until his skin bubbles up, and so he keeps one in his bedside drawer in all of his residences. His mansion in 2. His townhouse in the Capitol. His room in the District 2 male tribute's apartment at the Training Center.

When he wakes from the dream about his mother he does not reach for his lighter, but stares at the ceiling and wonders if she remembers that night so long ago. He has never asked her if she does and he never will. It's not the kind of thing that men from 2 talk about.

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If you ask Cato what he likes, he will give you a list of the finer things in life.

Actually, that's probably not true. Most likely, he'll shoot you one contemptuous glance before he turns on his heel and stalks off, unless you're rich, important, beautiful, or someone from the Academy.

But if he _does_ deign to answer your question, here's what he'll say:

He likes well-tailored three piece suits (he especially loves a close-fitting waistcoat, that one) in shades of gray or navy.

He likes the dry whisper that the silk tie he has chosen for the day makes as he as he loops it over itself (full windsors only, of course, because big boys need big knots).

Naturally, then, he also likes the _shush_ his silk pocket square makes when he stuffs it into the left side of his suit jacket.

He likes hand-crafted leather shoes that come from a place across the ocean called Italy.

He likes his collection of watches, some of which are gold and some of which are stainless steel and some of which have leather bands.

He likes his cologne, a special blend that the premier Capitol "nose" concocted just for him. It smells fresh and woody, with notes of bergamot and cedar and white pepper.

He likes his sheets, which are made from pure Egyptian cotton, and his gray cashmere blanket. He is told that they are made by a company called Frette, which is in Italy, the same place his shoes come from. (This Italy place, he has decided, must make even nicer things than District 1).

He likes filet mignon, medium-rare and served with asparagus and whipped garlic potatoes.

He likes a nice glass (or eight) of small batch rye whiskey. Neat, of course. Never on the rocks.

He likes cigars that come from a warm, tropical place they tell him is called Cuba. He keeps them in a glass-topped rosewood humidor, which he also likes.

He likes the black sedan with the leather interior that his driver uses to get him where he needs to go when he's in the Capitol.

He likes to go hunting for big game (they let him own and shoot firearms now that he is a Victor) in the mountains just outside of the Capitol and in the grassy plains in 2. He has killed elk and buffalo and a grizzly bear, and he has mounted all of their heads in his billiard room in 2.

He likes women who look elegant in public, but who spread their legs for him the second he gets them alone. It amuses him. They act so refined around everyone else, but he knows what they look like on their knees with his dick in their mouth and his cum on their face. He knows what they look like on all fours. He knows the sounds they make as he spreads their cheeks and pushes his cock into their well-oiled assholes.

He particularly likes the women who understand intuitively that there will be no cuddling and no conversation afterward. The ones who stand up as soon as he has finished, dress themselves quickly, and slip out without a word.

He sighs with exasperation when he brings home one who doesn't understand this, because then his lips and his teeth and his tongue are forced to waste time and energy on two one-syllable words: _Get_ and _out_.

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Cato will be mentoring for the third year in a row for the 75th Annual Hunger Games. This year his tribute is Quintus, who is an in-fighter like him. A swarmer. He likes to crowd his opponent, he likes to get right in their face and unleash flurries of punches. He's good with weapons in general, but he's especially brilliant with a sword in his hand. He is a younger version of Cato, who is convinced that his tribute will win two years in a row.

And then he finds out that for the Third Quarter Quell the Victors will be forced to mentor tributes from districts other than their own. He is furious when he hears the announcement that 2 will be responsible for the tributes from 12. Of course they would pair the most prestigious district with the trashiest one. The citizens of 12...they're not even people, as he understands it, but filthy, subhuman rats.

Cato is the second youngest Victor from 2. The youngest is Alec, his tribute from last year. The rest of them-Brutus, Cassius, Enobaria, Lyme, Hetalia, Marcus, Tamora, Linus, Thea, Heath, Liam, Buffy and Ronin-all refuse to deal with this shit, and since seniority rules, Cato and Alec are forced to flip a coin to see which will mentor the boy (heads) and which will mentor the girl (tails).

Alec flips the coin and it comes up heads, so Cato gets the girl.

It doesn't really matter anyway. Neither of them intend to _train_ their official tribute; they will be mentors in name only. Seneca immediately calls Lyme to let her know that, while the mentors from the outlying districts will not be allowed any contact with the kids from home, the gamemakers are willing to turn a blind eye to such behavior for 1 and 2, as a reward for their continued loyalty to the Capitol, and as long as they're discreet about the whole thing. So Cato will spend his time training Quintus and, since it's his first year, Alec will assist Enobaria as she trains Clove. They'll run off Seeder and Chaff, the District 11 Victors who were assigned to 2 for the quell. It won't be hard to do. They're both old and half-senile anyway.

Cato and Alec watch 12's reaping, because they should probably at least know what they're dealing with.

Effie Trinket draws the name _Primrose Everdeen_ and a little 12-year-old girl with golden braids and sky-blue eyes and rosy lips and cheeks steps forward in shock. Cato sighs and drops his head into his hands. _Bloodbath. Casualty_. There go his mentoring stats. He'll probably come in dead last...at least in the bottom four.

And then he hears the frantic yell. "No! No! Prim! I volunteer!" He lifts his head just as the girl from the eighteen-year-old-section pushes Primrose Everdeen behind her. She's small, not really much taller than the little girl she has replaced, and lean, like everyone in 12. Her skin is olive and her hair is so dark he thinks it might be black and he doesn't understand at first why she's volunteered to sacrifice herself for this little girl, until the camera closes in and shows that, though their coloring is completely different, their features are similar. Cousins, then, or possibly sisters.

Her name is Katniss Everdeen, and she is, in fact, the older sister of Primrose. She seems to have some spine to her. Maybe she'll make it past the bloodbath.

It still sucks a bag of dicks.

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He meets her for the first time when she arrives at the apartment he will be forced to share with her. He can see that even though she has tried to clean herself up, there's still dirt beneath her fingernails. He can see how worn the fabric of her faded blue dress is. He rolls his eyes with disgust and glares at her, expecting her to flinch.

But she doesn't. She just scowls back at him, her gray eyes cold and surprisingly hard. He's actually taken aback, although he maintains his icy mask.

"Look, I'll get right to the point," he says. "This is a waste of my time. There's no way in hell you're gonna win, and even if you had a chance, I don't want you to anyway. I'll be spending most of my time down on the second floor with the guy I was _supposed_ to mentor this year. But I can't have you completely embarrassing me. So I'll come up with a training schedule for you and I'll see how you're doing every once in awhile. Can you do anything?"

She doesn't answer. She just stands there, continuing to scowl at him.

"Can you do anything?" he repeats impatiently.

" _Do_ anything?"

"Yeah. You know. Are you fast, can you climb, do you have any experience with weapons or fighting or...anything?"

"No."

He snorts. "Of course not. I'll give you a schedule tomorrow."

He turns to Cinna. "I'm going to the second floor. Make sure she at least looks respectable at the parade. None of those stupid coal miner helmets." And then he leaves.

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Cinna makes her look respectable all right. He does his job a little too well, in fact, because she's literally on fire and the crowds roar and she and her fifteen-year-old district partner, some scrawny kid whose name he doesn't even bother to learn, steal all of the attention away from Quintus and Clove.

When he berates Cinna for it, the stylist just rolls his eyes. "It's your own fault. I wanted to ask your opinion, but you were with Quintus the entire afternoon." Cinna isn't afraid of Cato. He's styled the male tribute from 2 for the last seven years. He styled Cato himself. Still dresses him regularly, in fact. He's one of the only people whose lip Cato puts up with, because if he popped him in the face like he does everyone else who gets smart with him he'd have to find another stylist, which would be more trouble than it's worth, and no one is as good as Cinna anyway, so he just sighs and glares at the man.

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He hands her the schedule for the week the next morning just before breakfast and shows her as quickly as possible how to use her personal training facility, which is across the hall from the apartment. There's a track so she can run long-distance and sprints. There's a climbing wall and a net that spans the entire ceiling. There's a raised platform covered with a thick mat for hand-to-hand sparring, which she'll never use because he'll never bother to train her. There's a survival lab of sorts, with a database chock-full of information on finding water and building shelter and foraging in just about any environment imaginable. There's a section dedicated to weapons. There are swords and spears and machetes and throwing knives and bows and arrows. There's a computer program with detailed tutorials and when you're ready to practice it spits out human-shaped holographs for her to practice on. If she ends up being halfway decent with any of the weapons (which he seriously doubts will happen), she can increase the difficulty. She can adjust the settings so that the holographs move and charge her. She can make two or three or four of them come at her at once. But he doesn't bother to go into that much detail, because it's a moot point in her case.

He glares at her the whole time.

She scowls back.

When he asks her if she has any questions, she just shakes her head.

They go to breakfast. Effie Trinket comments that she's pleasantly surprised to find that the girl uses the silverware and chews with her mouth closed.

"They usually eat like barbarians," the escort says as an aside to Cato. "They stuff in as much and as quickly as they can. Except for the boy from four years ago. Now he had manners."

The girl from 12 glares openly at Effie, her teeth clenched, her nostrils flared. Cato laughs.

"What was his name?" Effie murmurs to herself. "It's on the tip of my tongue..started with a P. I wanna say Peter, but that's not right. Do you remember?" she asks Cato.

Cato shrugs and shakes his head as though he doesn't remember. But he does. _Peeta Francis Mellark_. _Fourteen years old. Youngest of three boys. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Broad shoulders. Strong for his age. Died by my hand, my sword. From a stab wound to his thigh. Bled out._

"Peeta," the girl bites out. "Peeta Mellark. And you should know. You killed him."

"Did I?" Cato asks nonchalantly, and bites down on his english muffin with a crunch. "I killed a lot of kids in that arena. Eight, to be exact. That's the record you know. For most kills."

"Can't keep 'em all straight?" she asks, sarcasm in her voice.

"No point. None of them really mattered anyway." He takes a sip of coffee.

"Or maybe you're just too stupid to retain that much information."

"Young lady!" Effie scolds.

Cato doesn't say anything. At least not right away. There are some things Cato likes. And there are a lot of things he doesn't like, and even more things he doesn't give a shit about. But there are very few things that he _hates_. Katniss Everdeen, however, has managed to stumble upon one of them. Cato Hadley _hates_ being called stupid. They found that out the hard way at the Academy when he was twelve years old. They found out that even though it took him five minutes to read one paragraph, it took him less than a second to break someone's leg. They found out that it didn't matter if he couldn't connect that since six times seven equals forty-two, forty-two divided by six equals seven, because if his fist connected with your face, you'd never even be able to count to forty-two again anyway.

But Cato doesn't break Katniss Everdeen's leg. He doesn't punch her in the face. He takes another bite of his english muffin and he chews it slowly as he studies her. After he's swallowed, he wipes the butter from his lips with his napkin. "You know what you need to learn?" he asks evenly.

"Manners?" she taunts. "Respect?"

He shakes his head. "No." He picks up a knife. The serrated one they use to slice the bagels in half. "How to stitch yourself up if you get a nasty cut in the arena."

Before her confusion can even register on her face, he's on his feet and at her side and his fingers are wrapped around her bicep and he's sliced the flesh just beneath her shoulder.

"Jesus Cato!" Cinna yells, and Effie gasps.

But he just shrugs. "I'm just trying to help her. It could happen you know. Easily."

He turns back to her. The pain doesn't seem to have registered with her yet. She's just staring at him in shock as her blood flows red down her lean olive arm.

"There's a tutorial on how to stitch up wounds in the database," he tells her with a smirk. "And I'll have someone bring you up the needle and thread and all that shit." He crosses back over to his side of the table and downs the rest of his coffee. "I'm out," he says to Cinna. "I'll be on the second floor. If she needs anything, find someone else to help her."

She's still staring at him in shock as he stalks over to the door. When he reaches it, he turns around and raises an eyebrow at her. "You'll uh, want to put some pressure on that. To stop the bleeding."

He's still laughing about it when he reaches Quintus's training room.

"How's your tribute?" Brutus asks him.

"She's a fucking cunt," he says, and then he turns to Quintus. "If you get your hands on her, kill her slowly."

Quintus grins. "Yes sir."

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When he returns that evening to get ready to go out, she's sitting on the couch watching footage of the Second Quarter Quell.

He expects her to turn her head and glare or to cower in fear. But she doesn't acknowledge his presence. It irks him.

He goes to take a shower and get dressed and when he comes back out, she's still sitting there in front of the tv, notebook and pencil in hand.

He goes over to the bar and pours himself a pre-game whiskey. His back is to her, and he glances up into the mirror, his eyes flitting briefly to her face. She seems calm as can be. He wonders if she somehow found some painkillers. He'd purposely neglected to have them send up any numbing cream so she'd get to experience each and every prick of the needle, so she'd know what thread sliding through her flesh felt like.

He goes into the dining room. Cinna looks up from his sketches.

"She stitch up her arm?" Cato asks him.

"Like a boss," Cinna says.

"She took something for it though. Ibuprofen at least." He says it as a statement, but it's really a question.

Cinna shakes his head. "Nope. She didn't."

He's annoyed.

He goes back out to the living room and plops down in the easy chair across from the sofa. "How's that arm?" he smirks.

She looks over at him and raises her eyebrows. She pauses the tv and stands, and then she puts up a finger. _Just a second_. She leaves the room and returns with a knife. The one he cut her with that morning. She approaches him and he eyes her warily. Is she going to try to attack him? Because that would be incredibly stupid of her. But she doesn't attack him. Instead, she holds the knife out to him, handle first.

He's confused. He doesn't know what else to do but take it from her.

She shimmies out of her hoodie and he sees the cut. The stitches are small and neat and even. She holds out her other arm and pushes the sleeve of her t shirt up onto her shoulder.

"I think I need more practice."

He tries to maintain his composure, but his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he can tell by the way the corner of her mouth turns up and her steely irises gleam that she's noticed his reaction.

"Well?" she asks, her voice low and velvety, almost a purr.

It's enough to snap him back to his usual self. He grins sadistically and takes hold of her elbow. He meets her eyes and he draws the blade slowly across her skin, digging in just a little, wiggling the blade just a little.

She doesn't blink. She doesn't flinch. She just stares right back at him with those gray eyes.

When he's done he lets go and he knows his disappointment at her lack of reaction is evident on his face.

"Thank you," she says. "I'll take that back now." She holds out her hand and he places the knife in her palm. She hands it to the waiting Avox and she sits down on the couch and starts the footage back up as she applies pressure to the wound.

He sips his whiskey and stares at the tv. He pretends to be engrossed in it but his brain has no idea what his eyes are looking at.

When the bleeding slows to a crawl, she cleans her hands and her cut with the antiseptic wipe and he can't help himself. He watches in fascination as she sews herself up. He thinks maybe his phone is vibrating in his pocket, but he can't take his eyes off of her arm long enough to check it. This time she's using her non-dominant hand and the stitches are messy and uneven. His eyes dart to her face as she laughs softly at herself. "It looks like a first-grader did it," she mutters. "Or a drunk."

There's a knock on the apartment door, and Brutus pokes his head in. "Cato what the fuck? I texted you like three times. We're waiting for you."

He downs the rest of his whiskey and leaves without a word.

That night he dreams of crimson and screaming and iron. When he wakes in a cold sweat, he knows that it was Peeta Mellark's blood he saw and smelled. Peeta Mellark's screams he heard. He rolls over and opens the drawer of the nightstand. But this is not the District 2 male tribute's apartment. This is the Disttrict 12 female tribute's apartment. There is no lighter in the drawer, and the pressure is building inside of him. He doesn't know how to release it.

None of this would have happened if he wasn't stuck mentoring this ratty little bitch. He would have been in his usual room with his trusty lighter in the drawer. This is _her_ fault. Ratty little bitch. With her ratty gray eyes.

And all of a sudden his dick is rock hard and he's wrapped his fist around it and he's coming in less than a minute.

The pressure has been released.

He falls back asleep.

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The next night he's at a quiet, smoky bar with Alec and Linus and Ronin when he locks eyes with a beautiful girl. She's tall and willowy and elegant. She's wearing a short (but not _too_ short) and fitted (but not _too_ fitted) sheath dress and expensive stilettos that show just the right amount of toe cleavage. She has rich brown skin and milk-chocolate eyes and an afro (he's a sucker for a girl with an afro). She's sipping a glass of chardonnay with a bunch of her girlfriends.

He makes his way over to her. He takes the glass from her hand and sets it on the high top.

"It's chilly outside," he says. "Do you have a coat? I'll get it for you."

"Why?" she asks coyly. "Where am I going?"

"To the Training Center," he says. "With me."

She narrows her eyes and runs her tongue over her teeth and pretends to consider him. But only for a few seconds, and then she nods her head toward the coat rack. "It's the olive green trench coat."

He goes to retrieve it. He can hear her girlfriends whispering and suppressing their giggles. _Lucky bitch,_ they hiss.

He can't help but agree with them. She _is_ one lucky bitch. In fifteen minutes he'll be tearing her ass in two.

When he returns, they've all regained their composure and they're playing it cool. He slips the olive green trench coat over her shoulders and takes her hand and they walk the three blocks back to the Training Center.

By the time they make it into the apartment, he's pushed her skirt up to her hips and discovered that she's gone commando this evening. He bends her over the couch, wondering why she's suddenly become so giggly, and he pulls his half-hard cock out of his fly and rubs it on her ass cheek.

She giggles again. It's high-pitched and annoying and conspicuously loud in the dark, silent living room. "Shut the fuck up!" he hisses. The last thing he needs is a midnight lecture from Effie Trinket.

He strokes himself a few times, but he can't seem to stiffen up past half-mast. She's looking over her shoulder at him and giggling again, and she's wiggling her hips and grinding her rear against his thighs.

But it's not working. What the fuck is wrong with him? This has _never_ happened before. He starts to panic. What if she tells all of her friends? What if _they_ tell people? What if a rumor starts to spread? What if they whisper that he's impotent?

He slaps his dick on her ass a few times. _Come on you little fucker_ he says to it. _Get it together. Stiffen up._

She giggles yet again. God she's so fucking loud.

"Shut _up_!" he grinds out through clenched teeth and shoves her face into the couch cushion, which only makes her moan. Keen, really.

Holy shit. If everyone in that apartment isn't awake by now it'll be a goddamned miracle.

And then she vomits all over the couch. He tucks himself back in his pants in disgust (he's gone all soft now) and turns her over. Jesus, she hadn't seemed anything other than tipsy at the bar. The alcohol must have just now hit her. He yanks the woman's skirt down and grabs her by the arm and he tosses her and her olive green trench coat into the hallway outside of the apartment.

"Get her out of here," he barks to the nearest Peacekeeper.

When he turns around he sees his tribute tiptoeing toward the hallway where the bedrooms are.

He should just let her keep going and pretend he never saw her, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. "What the fuck are you doing?" he asks.

She winces and stops in her tracks.

"I said what the fuck are you doing?" he asks again.

She turns to face him. She's in a dark-colored silk chemise and her feet are bare and her hair is down and spilling softly over her shoulders, the tendrils brushing against the dark wounds on her arms. Even in the shadows, he can see that she's horrified, and he realizes she's an innocent. "I couldn't sleep. I was in that chair." She points to the corner of the room.

"Doing what?"

She shrugs nervously and her voice shakes. "Just looking at the city at night. Getting some water." He looks down to see a glass in her hand. "And then you walked in with that girl and I didn't know what to do."

He smirks at her. _This'll be fun_. He wants to see just how uncomfortable he can make her. "Did you like what you saw? Gonna go back to your room and touch your little pussy now while you think about me?"

Her innocent discomfort evaporates and her features harden. "Not much to see," she retorts. "Other than a flaccid penis. I didn't realize guys could go impotent so young."

His blood starts to boil but he keeps his composure. "You know what you need to learn?" he asks her.

"How to stitch myself up if I get a nasty cut in the arena?" She's mocking him. Her voice is low and dumb-sounding. Her "dumb guy" voice. _Why do girls always have a "dumb guy" voice?_

He laughs softly though there's no mirth in it. "No. How to deal with the elements."

Her eyes widen just a fraction. _Aaaaah_. He's hit a nerve.

But she recovers herself immediately and narrows her eyes down to slits. A challenge then. That's what she wants. Oh, he's more than happy to oblige.

He stalks over to her and grasps her roughly by the arm, enjoying her involuntary wince as he digs his fingers into her still-fresh cut. He sees her momentarily consider digging her heels in and resisting him, but then a mixture of pride and acceptance forms on her face. She's clearly not one to back down from a challenge, and she knows how fruitless it would be to fight him anyway. He could overpower her with one hand. She struggles to keep up with his resolute pace, but she doesn't try to pull out of his grasp as he ushers her out into the hallway and up onto the roof. He swings her around hard and her shoulder blades and the back of her skull thud against the rough brick wall. It's early June and it's been fairly pleasant during the daytime-in the low 70s. But the nights have been clear and cloudless, and it's consistently gotten down to about 50 for the past few nights. And the wind is cruel this high up. It whips her hair into her face and raises goosebumps along her arms.

"Night night," he says, patting her head as though she's a dog, because, after all, he's putting her out like she's one. "I'll come get you in the morning."

He returns to the stairwell and closes and locks the door to the roof. "Don't let her back in unless it looks like she's gonna freeze to death," he says to the bewildered Peacekeeper, who has now watched him toss two different women around like rag dolls in the space of three minutes.

He strips down when he reaches his room and goes to take a piss. It's then, when he flips on the light, that he sees the blood on his fingers-he must have accidentally reopened one of her cuts when he grabbed her arm . He rubs his fingers together and thinks of her in that chemise ( _fuck you Cinna_ he says to himself, because surely the stylist picked that out for her). He thinks of her hair tumbling all around her face.

Aaaaaand now he's hard as a rock. So he sticks the tips of his fingers in his mouth and tastes her blood as he jerks himself off into the toilet.

He sleeps like a baby.

He wakes around 7:30am. She's been up there for about seven hours. It's pouring. Everything is gray and he can't even make out the building across the street, that's how hard it's coming down.

He's not _that_ stupid. He doesn't want to risk her getting hypothermia, because if he pushes it too far he really may have to answer to the gamemakers. She doesn't have to be in great shape when she enters the arena, but she needs to actually be _alive_ to enter the arena.

He leaves the apartment and he climbs the stairs and he unlocks the door and he pushes it open.

She's huddled in a wet little ball against the side of the bricks, and she's shivering. She looks up at the sound of the door.

He raises his eyebrows at her from inside, where it's nice and dry and warm. _Well_?

She pushes herself up off the ground and makes her way over to him. Her hair is plastered to her head. Her skin is covered in goosebumps. Her teeth are chattering. Her clothes are soaked through. He can see the outline of her ribs and her hip bones and her breasts. He can see just how skinny she is.

She looks up at him with venom in her eyes and he can tell that she _hates_ to be cold. It makes him smug. He's gotten to her. He's regained the upper hand. He will win this thing (whatever the hell it is).

He holds the door open for her and follows her back down the stairs, trying not to slip and fall in the trail of water dripping off of her. It's no easy feat, because now it's her shoulder blades and her bottom that catch his attention, and he has to consciously force himself to pry his eyes off of her shivering form and down to the floor.

When they reach the apartment she immediately heads for her room and he hears the sound of her shower starting up.

She doesn't come out for breakfast.

He's rather pleased with himself.

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The next morning, he emerges from her room and finds her standing at the buffet. She pours herself a mug of hot cocoa and she adds a dollop of whipped cream and then a smattering of chocolate sprinkles.

"Still cold?" he asks smugly.

She whips around, mug in hand.

"Still impotent?" she shoots back.

His blood boils but he keeps his composure. "You know wh-"

"What do I need to learn?" she cuts him off.

He lifts his chin and looks down his nose at her. He's ready to lock her in her room for three whole days. "Howto function without eating."

She throws her head back and laughs. "Oh no problem. I know hunger. I know all about it. We're old friends, me and hunger."

He scoffs. "I doubt that."

She raises her eyebrows. "I almost starved to death when I was eleven. After my dad died in the mines and my mom went crazy and I had to figure out how to feed the three of us. I know what it feels like when you haven't eaten anything for a week except a third of a rotten squash and a handful of dried mint leaves. I know how your stomach turns on you. Like it's trying to eat _itself_ to feed you. I know about the headaches and the dizziness. I know how even lifting your arm feels like you're trying to lift a hundred pound weight. So go ahead. Be my guest. 'Starve' me for a few days. In fact, I'll do it voluntarily. You won't even have to make me. And I dare you to do it with me. I bet you don't make it twenty-four hours. I bet you've never truly been hungry in your life."

He stares at her, trying to come up with a retort, but all he can think of is _a third of a rotten squash and a handful of dried mint leaves_.

"Come on," she challenges again, breaking into his thoughts. "Do it with me. You've packed on a few pounds since your victory. You look like you could stand to go a few days without eating."

He _has_ gained a little weight over the last four years actually. He's still built and muscular, but he's gotten...not flabbier exactly, but...puffier. Not quite as cut. He's a little upset about it, but he likes his whiskey too much. He'd thought no one noticed. He'd thought his t shirts and his button-downs and his waistcoats covered it up. But he's obviously wrong.

She's wounded his vanity, but he'll be damned if he'll let her know that. So he grins lazily at her. "The ladies don't seem to mind," he says. "They love me."

She snorts. "No they don't. They love your money. They love your status. They love that you're a Victor. They don't give a shit about _you_. No one does. And no one ever will. You'll die all alone."

If he thought he hated being called stupid more than anything…

"Mmm, let's forget about the hunger thing. I think you should learn how to put your shoulder back in place if you dislocate it."

She blinks and opens her mouth, but before she can say anything he has closed the distance between them and he braces her waist with one hand while with the other he wrenches her arm towards him and out of its socket.

There's a sickening _pop_ and she drops the mug she'd been holding in the opposite hand. It shatters and hot cocoa goes everywhere. He swears she sucks half of the oxygen out of the room as she gasps.

He lets go of her and steps back to admire his handiwork. She's looking down in horror at her arm, which is limps and dangling awkwardly.

"You're in the arena and you just fell out of a tree. And that-" he says, pointing at her arm, "just happened. What're you gonna do about it?"

She's just standing there, her shock starting to give way to the pain. Her face is turning a sickly green color.

"What are you gonna do?" he asks again.

She still doesn't answer because she's struggling to keep her breakfast down and her breathing even. "Well," he says after a few seconds, "I guess you'd better figure it out."

And then he leaves.

The next time he encounters her, her arm is in a sling and she scurries from the room when she sees him.

And after that, she continues to steer clear of him.

He has officially won this thing (whatever the hell it is).

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 **Again, thanks for taking the time to read this. And please, please, please review! It motivates me to keep going.**


	2. Heart Attack

**A/N: Credit to the Wikipedia article on Boxing Styles and Techniques and Kendall Kulper Toniatti's article on bloggingforya about writing about archery.**

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One Saturday night a few weeks later, he drinks way too much and he finds himself with a nasty hangover the next day. He sleeps until mid-afternoon, because he knows that Sundays are Quintus's rest day anyway.

When he finally wakes, he hears strange voices in the apartment.

He creeps silently into the hallway and peeks around the wall and he realizes that she's facetiming her family.

"We have your tesserae," her mother says. "And Gale brings us a couple of squirrels or so every Sunday. We've been rationing it out so we get one of Lady's cheeses every week to split. And we've been getting a handful of people stopping by for our help, so we're able to supplement with that."

"Ok, but it's not just food you have to buy," his tribute says, and her voice is tinged with panic. "What about firewood and candles and feed for Lady and soap? And clothes for Prim? She's outgrowing that dress. I can see it. Your income has to be stretched thin. And Gale..it's gonna get harder and harder for him to help now that he's working in the mines."

Her mother and her sister, Primrose, exchange uncomfortable glances with each other.

"What?" she asks.

"Are you alone?" Prim asks.

"Yeeees," she says slowly.

"I've been thinking...maybe next Sunday I'll ask Gale to take me into the woods and show me-"

"No! Absolutely not!"

"You were doing it by this age!" Prim protests. "You were going under the fence every morning before school to hunt! You were keeping us fed!"

"No! I won't allow it!"

"Then I'll take out tesserae."

"No!"

"You did!"

"Prim, no!"

"And what if we starve to death Katniss?" her little sister cries passionately. "What then? Wouldn't it be better for me to take out tesserae and get reaped or get caught poaching by Peacekeepers and executed than starve?"

Cato can't see her face, but by the slump of her shoulders, he knows that his tribute is acknowledging defeat. "Please just...not yet," she pleads. "Not until I'm...not until after the games. Not unless you _have_ to."

There's a noise off to the side like a door opening and closing, and Mrs. Everdeen and Prim both turn their heads.

"Gale!" Prim calls. "Come talk to Katniss."

She and her mom disappear from the screen and a guy (Cato thinks maybe it's the same one who carried Prim back to Mrs. Everdeen after Katniss volunteered) sits down.

"Hey Catnip," he says quietly. He caresses her face with his eyes.

 _Catnip? And why is this asshole looking at her like that?_

"Gale," she sighs, her voice thick with emotion.

"What's wrong?"

"Mom and Prim. I'm just worried-"

"I told you I wouldn't let them starve and I won't," he cuts her off. "I caught a rabbit today. It should last them the whole week. Besides, you can win this. I know it. You can climb, you can hunt, you can provide for yourself. Does that asshole know you can shoot?"

 _Hunt? Shoot?_

"No. But it doesn't matter whether or not he knows if I can't get ahold of a bow in there."

 _Bow?_

"Well if he knows, he'll make damn certain you _don't_ get one. So keep it that way."

"Trust me," she says. "I know."

They talk for a few minutes more, but Cato is lost in thought. He's actually offended by the way they talk about him. As if they know him. As if they're so certain he'd betray her if he knew she could shoot. (He's actually planning to, but that's beside the point). These people don't know him. They don't know anything about him. Just what they've seen on tv.

And then her mother and sister reappear behind this Gale guy, and they're all saying goodbye and I love you.

She hangs up and stands, grimacing and holding her left arm gingerly at her side. She leans over the coffee table and picks up her sling and slips it on, and he realizes that she is hiding her injury from her loved ones.

She bows her head and sinks back onto the cushion. She brings her right hand up to her face and she starts to weep.

And something strange takes place inside Cato's body. His heart begins to pound violently in his chest. It twists and clenches in on itself. It kind of reminds him of how she described starvation: _It turns on you_.

He tells himself it's because of the hangover.

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The next morning at breakfast he studies her.

She can shoot.

Now that he's looking at her, really _looking_ at her, he can see it.

She has callouses on the tips of the three middle fingers of her left hand. Her stance (when she's not maimed) is straight and strong and proud and graceful, her posture perfect. Her steps are light and she moves almost silently most of the time. And even when the rest of her is perfectly still, her eyes appear to be ever-shifting and mercurial, like a predator's.

He'll tell Quintus and Clove and Brutus and Enobaria about this first thing. Right after breakfast. As soon as he gets down there.

Well...except...he hasn't actually _seen_ her shoot. Maybe he should do that first. Get a handle on it. See just how good she is. See if he can pick up any other useful information. Yeah. That's what he'll do. He'll tell them once he knows a little bit more about her.

"How's your tribute?" Brutus asks when he enters Quintus's training room a half hour later.

"Still a cunt," he says.

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A couple of weeks later, he notices that she has stopped wearing the sling and she doesn't hold her arm close to her body anymore.

So one Sunday he pretends to leave, but he sneaks into her training room and he climbs up into the net in the ceiling. It's a gamble, he knows it. But if he can just lay perfectly still...

She enters about fifteen minutes later.

She stretches her shoulder gently and she selects a bow from the wall.

It's a left-handed compound bow, the smallest and lightest one there is.

She straps the quiver to her thigh and she goes to the programming screen and she fiddles around.

Not thirty seconds later, three holographs are bearing down on her at once. They don't make it very far, though. She pierces each one through it's "heart" and they disintegrate before her eyes. And then there are three more. And then three more. And then three more.

She's out of ammunition after that.

She collects her arrows and she goes to the screen and she fiddles around again, and this time four of them come at her at a time. Three sets of them.

He's in awe. His mouth is hanging open. She doesn't miss a single one.

But then she drops the bow and turns around and even from twenty feet up he can see that her face is puckered. Her hand right hand goes to her left shoulder. She is in pain.

It was her left shoulder that he dislocated. He has fucked up her drawing arm.

He feels sick to his stomach. His chest hurts. It feels like there's a nasty parasite inside of him ripping him apart.

He doesn't understand.

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He'll tell Quintus and Brutus and Clove and Enobaria right after breakfast he decides the next morning. First thing. As soon as he gets down there.

Well...except...she's hurt. She had to stop after a few minutes of practice yesterday anyway. She probably won't even be able to nock the arrow by the time she makes it to the arena. So there's really no point in getting everybody all worked up over nothing. Maybe he should wait and see if her condition improves. He can always tell them later if it looks like she'll be a threat. Yeah. That's what he'll do. He'll tell them once he knows a little bit more.

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He comes to dinner that night. She eyes him suspiciously and then she puts her head down and concentrates on her food.

"How's your shoulder?" he asks. There is no sarcasm in his voice. No smugness. No sadism.

She jerks her head and blinks in surprise, and then her face hardens. "The fuck do you care?"

"Young lady!" Effie scolds. "Manners!"

"You know there are stretches and exercises you can do to rehabilitate it," he says. _Shut the fuck up_ he says to himself. _Why are you telling her this?_ But he can't stop the words. "And you should ice it regularly," he continues.

"I know," she snaps. "I'm not stupid. I looked it up right after you did it. But _thank you_ ," she bites out sarcastically. "For your _concern._ "

"Ooookay then," he says, and shaking his head, he tucks into his food. He's offended. He's trying to _help_ her and she's rebuffing him. She dislikes him so much she doesn't even trust friendly advice from him. It nettles him. She acts like she knows him. Like he could never do anything nice for anyone. It makes him a little (just a little) sick to his stomach. It makes his heart twist a little (just a little) in his chest.

He doesn't understand.

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He's out with Brutus the next night. They're in a back corner booth at a quiet, cozy bar.

They're drinking whiskey. Brutus seems out of it. His shoulders are drooping. His eyes look empty. He's not really talking. He's just sitting there morosely, staring into his glass. He's drinking more quickly than usual. They've been there two hours and he's already had eight to Cato's four. It's getting downright uncomfortable, and Cato is just about to suggest that they call it a night when two beautiful women approach them.

"Can we join you?" one of them asks as she slides in beside Brutus while the other slides in next to Cato. He's just turning to smile at her and try to get a peek down her dress when he hears an indignant squeal.

"Get outta here," Brutus growls. He has shoved his potential lover right off of the booth and she has landed on her ass on the floor. "Filthy whore."

Cato sighs and turns to the one at his side. "You heard him," he says as he jerks his head toward the door. "Out. Go."

She looks horribly disappointed, but she stands up and walks away, and after her friend picks herself up and dusts herself off, she follows suit.

"Jesus christ Brutus," Cato says when they're alone again. "What the hell?"

"Are you happy?" Brutus asks.

"Ummm…what?"

"Like your suits and your cigars and this whiskey and all that anal you get. Does it actually make you happy? Cuz I keep trying to make myself happy with it. But it's not working. Look at us. This is us. This is our life. What am I gonna do for the rest of it? Nothing except this. Nothing except drink myself drunk and stick my dick in some poor little thing who doesn't even want _me_. Ha! Because there is no me. Just a fat, washed up Victor. And no one really even knows me. _No one_. Shit, _I_ don't even know me. These bitches," he slurs, gesturing around the bar. "They don't want me. They want money and status. And this is all there is for me. Nothing good. I'll never do anything good. I'll never help anyone."

"You helped me."

"No I didn't. Look at you. You're me when I was twenty-two. The kindest thing I could have done for you is let you die in that arena. I hope...god I hope Quintus bites it. Clove too."

"Ok, come on Brutus, let's go man. I think you've had enough."

Brutus opens his mouth to protest, and then nods drunkenly. The two of them down the rest of their drinks and leave. They're about halfway to Brutus's townhouse when he starts to really fall apart. He can hardly walk.

Cato's exhausted by the time he gets Brutus up the steps and into the front door. He settles him on the couch and he takes off his shoes and he gets him a glass of water and he sets it on the coffee table.

"You're gonna have an awful hangover tomorrow," Cato warns. "Don't worry about coming in. I'll call you in the afternoon."

"I'm gonna die alone," Brutus says out of nowhere and alarm shoots up Cato's spine. Brutus's take on life tonight is sounding eerily like Katniss's words the morning Cato fucked up her shoulder.

"No you're not man," Cato says.

"Yes. Yes I am. Alone. With no one."

"Nah, you got me. I'll keep you company in your ripe old age."

Brutus scoffs. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Just do me a favor son. Will you do me a favor?"

Cato sighs. "Sure Brutus. What is it?"

"Don't be like the rest of us. Do something good."

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The next morning, Cato is lost in thought, recalling Brutus's words from the night before as he makes his way down the ten flights of stairs to go train Quintus.

He's not really paying attention to where he's going, so it's not until he's in the doorway of Marvel's training facility that he realizes he's gone one floor too far.

He stops in his tracks. Gloss and Marvel are boxing each other. Marvel's a tall guy but he's pretty lean for a Career. When Cato saw his reaping, he figured that the District 1 tribute wouldn't be as strong as Quintus, but would make up for it in speed and agility.

But no. Marvel, it turns out, is a slugger. He's not that fast but, holy shit, are his punches powerful. He could kill a man with just one of them to the temple or the back of the head. If you're fighting him, you wanna stay back, you wanna keep your distance, you wanna wear him down. You wanna be an out-fighter, not an in-fighter like him and Quintus.

Fuck. Quintus has like six weeks to retrain himself.

He will tell him _today._ Right now, in fact.

He sneaks off without anyone noticing him and he's halfway up the stairs when his phone vibrates.

It's Lyme.

She has called to tell him that Brutus is dead.

The world spins and Cato has to sit down right where he is, right there on the step. Otherwise he'll pass out.

No, he tells Lyme. No, no, no. This is not possible. He _just_ saw Brutus last night. Like eight hours ago. He got him home. He put him to sleep on the couch. He'd only had like eight whiskeys while they were at the bar, and a couple before they left.

"He must have gotten back up after you left," Lyme says. "He downed most of another handle. His BAC was .46. They found him on the floor with the bottle beside him."

Cato's heart stops in his chest. Did Brutus do this on purpose? Was he trying to kill himself? Or was it an accident? Either way this is Cato's fault. He could have stopped it if he'd just stayed. If he'd just listened to the little voice in the back of his head that said something was wrong.

And now the man who is more his father than his _actual_ father is dead.

Everything turns black.

He can hear Quintus talking to him, and somehow he winds up in the District 2 apartment and they're all gathered together, all of the Victors from 2, and they're asking Cato about Brutus, about how he was acting while they were at the bar, but Cato doesn't speak, can't speak.

It's all over the news. It's all anybody can talk about. And then, there she is on screen. The girl from last night, the one Brutus pushed off the booth. Talking about how he was acting strange last night.

It pisses Cato off. He wants to spit in her face, he wants to knock her teeth out. How dare she. Talking about Brutus as if she _knows_ him.

She's actually making shit up, providing fabricated details, clearly relishing her time in front of the camera.

He was right. Brutus was right. These bitches. They just want money and fame and prestige. Brutus never really had anyone; no one ever really _knew_ him or wanted him just for himself.

Cato's just like him. He's got no one. _No one_. All these other Victors around, sure he knows them but not _really_. None of them really know each other because they never get past the surface, they never move on from training and the games and the Academy.

Cato has seen funerals on tv shows and he's been to a few for important people in the Capitol. He has seen how the deceased person's loved ones all gather together with teary eyes and offer one another comfort with their hands and their arms.

There will be none of that at Brutus's funeral. There will be lots of coverage and lots of attention, but there will be no physical comfort. It is not acceptable for Victors from 2 to hug one another or hold hands.

He's in a room full of people but he's never realized before just how lonely he is.

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Brutus's funeral takes place in the Capitol four days later. The scale of it is overwhelming. There are cameras everywhere and the Capitolites pack the streets to watch the the procession. There's all kinds of bullshit about "gone too soon" and "remembering one of the greats" but Cato can feel how hollow it all is. He looks at the faces of the bureaucrats and the gamemakers and the president and everyone else who attends and he knows that none of them actually care. It's all just empty ritual. Going through the motions. None of them will shed a tear this evening. They'll go home and eat their fancy food and drink their fancy liquor and fuck their fancy mistresses just like they do every other night.

When it's over and they've returned to the Training Center, Cato makes his way up to the twelfth floor. He can't stand to be around his own people anymore. Yes, they are actually genuine in their shock and sadness over Brutus's death, but he feels even more alone when he's surrounded by them than he would if he just sat by himself upstairs.

And that's exactly what he does. He doesn't eat dinner and he doesn't drink any whiskey. He just sits in front of the tv, the volume on low, and watches the neverending coverage.

He hears a rustle off to the side, sort of like the sound his ties and his pocket squares make, and he turns his head to see his tribute.

She's standing there in a short, black silk robe. Her hair is loose around her face. Her legs and her feet are bare. She's studying him sadly.

He turns his head back to center and drops his eyes to his hands.

And then the rustling sound comes closer and he can smell something clean and earthy and warm, and her hand is on his shoulder, burning through his jacket and his shirt.

"Hey," she says softly, not much more than a breath.

He doesn't look up.

"Hey," she coaxes again, and shakes him gently.

He wonders what she wants and why she's voluntarily come this close to him but he doesn't care enough to try to find out the answer.

And then she lifts her hand from his shoulder and places it on his jaw and brushes her thumb back and forth across his cheek two times before she stills.

So much riots through him in the space of a few seconds.

He doesn't understand at first. Does she want to have _sex_ with him?

He's so startled he looks up into her eyes. No, he realizes. There's no lust in her irises.

Then why the hell is she touching him...and why...does it feel... _so_...good?

It makes his chest ache even more than it already has been for the past few days. But this is different. It's not dull and sick feeling. This is sharp. Stabbing. Pounding.

He wonders if he's having a heart attack.

But he doesn't want it to stop. Ever. He wants to turn his cheek and nuzzle into her palm. He wants to wrap his arms around her waist and bury his face in her chest as she stands there between his legs and he wants to sob.

But he doesn't do any of these things. He just stares up at her in shock and confusion.

Her eyes on his face are soft and warm and smoky and he has _never_ in his life seen anything like this, felt anything like this. "I'm sorry about Brutus," she says quietly. "I know how awful it is to lose your father."

How the hell does she know that he thought of his mentor as a father? He hadn't even realized it himself until after he found out Brutus was dead.

He stares into her eyes, her eyes that aren't asking anything of him. Not money or fame or prestige. Cato has never been able to grasp the concept of empathy. He's heard the word and its definition, and he could use it in a sentence if you ask him, but he's never understood or known what it truly _means_. Until now. Until he has become the recipient of it.

It is the purest, most precious gift that anyone has ever given him.

It asks nothing in return. _She_ asks nothing in return.

She simply withdraws her hand and turns and leaves.

He sits there staring at the floor for another hour and he can still feel her hand soft and warm upon his jaw and her eyes soft and warm upon his face.

When he finally goes to bed, he dreams of that hand and those eyes. But this time he turns his cheek and nuzzles into her palm. He wraps his arms around her waist and he sobs into her chest. He hears the rustle of her silk robe and feels it catch on his scruff. He inhales her scent, clean and earthy and warm.

When he wakes in the morning he stares at the ceiling and relives it all over again. He knows he will remember what she's done for him for the rest of his life, how she comforted him. He will remember the exact degree of warmth of her hand on his jaw and how she smelled like an early summer rainstorm.

He will remember just as he can still remember the feel of his mother when he was four, just as he can remember how the scent of gardenias clung to her skin and her clothing and her hair.

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He can hardly take his eyes off of his tribute the next morning at breakfast.

He doesn't know what was wrong with him before. How had he not noticed? What was he _doing_?

She is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It hurts to look at her, but he can't stop. He's a masochist.

He wants to imprint her on his brain, he wants to memorize every little detail about her.

Her skin is olive and luminous and the light from the chandelier in the dining room glances off of her cheekbones and her shoulders. He has seen the expensive diamond bracelets and earrings and necklaces that the Capitol women wear at the cocktail parties and banquets, but not one of those baubles holds a candle to those shoulders and those cheekbones.

Her hair is not black, but a deep espresso color, and it too reflects the light from the chandelier, surrounding the crown of her head with a dazzling halo. It looks as silky as the robe she wore last night and now it's plaited instead of loose. He likes how it's not perfectly smooth. How there are all these little wisps that have escaped. He likes how she pulls it over her shoulder to rest against her collarbone, leaving the opposite side of her neck exposed.

She is small and she has been underfed for most of her life, but he can see the graceful curves that mark her as _woman_ instead of _man_ in spite of her lean muscles. The small swells that stand out in relief above the flat plane of her stomach. The waist that tapers in and the hips that flare out just a little. The delicate wrists and the small feet and hands.

She doesn't seem to notice that he is looking at her. She has gone back to ignoring him.

Effie doesn't seem to notice either, and chatters away about something stupid as usual.

But Cato feels eyes on his face and turns to find Cinna staring at him through narrowed lids. The stylist cocks his head and glances over at Katniss briefly, and then back to Cato.

Cato's face grows warm and he scowls down, suddenly intent on picking the seeds out of the strawberry jam on his english muffin.

He feels sick to his stomach and his mouth is dry and the mass in his chest is twisting and it's excruciating.

This time he thinks maybe he understands.

Cato has never been able to grasp the concept of love. He's heard the word and its definition, and he could use it in a sentence if you ask him, but he's never understood or known what it truly _means_. Until now.

It sucks a bag of dicks.

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He briefly considers telling her that he knows she can shoot and offering to train her in the evenings, when he's done with Quintus.

But he knows better. She doesn't trust him. Not one bit. If she finds out he knows, she may assume he's already told Quintus and Clove and give up trying to hide her skills altogether. She may say something about it during her interview and then they'll do anything they can, the Careers, to ensure she doesn't get her hands on a bow. They'll break every arrow in sight if they have to. They'll go gunning for her right off the plate.

And that is unacceptable. Because he has decided that she _has_ to go home. So that her family can afford food and candles and firewood and soap and feed for Lady (whoever the fuck that is). And new clothes for Prim since she's outgrowing the ones she has. And so that Gale guy ( _asshole_ he scowls) can caress her face with his eyes. And so she can have hot cocoa with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles since he made her drop her mug that morning when he dislocated her shoulder.

Also, he doesn't even know if his tongue is capable of forming a coherent phrase around her anymore. He hasn't spoken to her at all and he's terrified to even try. He'll probably turn to jelly and drool all over the place and then they'll have to have him committed because they'll think he's gone insane. Maybe he has.

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The night he hears her singing to her sister over facetime he seizes up and then he melts. It's the same as the last time; she doesn't realize he's lurking like a creep in the hallway. Afterwards, he doesn't really remember the words of the song (something about meadows and pillows and willows), but he remembers how her voice sounds like silk. Soft and hushed and smooth and dry. Like his ties and her robe. It wraps itself around him and catches on his scruff.

He can't see her, but he knows that her eyes are soft and smoky and warm on her sister's face because one time, for a few precious seconds, they were soft and smoky and warm on _his_ face and it made him feel like he was having a heart attack.

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"How's your tribute?" Quintus asks him the next morning. "Still a cunt?"

Cato wants to rip his throat out. How dare he talk about like that. Like he _knows_ her. He doesn't know anything about her.

But he just nods and rolls his eyes. "Yep," he says.

"Don't worry. I'll kill her for ya. Slowly. Carefully. She'll be my masterpiece. I'll paint the ground with her blood. And then I'll make sure she lives up to that stupid nickname the press gave her. She'll be on fire alright. But first..first I'll tie her up and, uh, plumb her depths, if you know what I mean. _All_ of them." He grins lewdly .

"Oh I know what you mean," Cato says, clenching his fists in his shorts to keep from snapping Quintus's neck. "I know exactly what you mean."

"You two are disgusting," Enobaria says, and rolls her eyes. "Come on, get your gloves on. Both of you. You're sparring today."

"Oh shit, that reminds me," Cato says. "I accidentally went a floor too far a couple weeks ago and I walked in on Gloss and Marvel sparring. I meant to tell you about it, but literally right afterward Lyme called about Brutus."

"Do they know you saw it?" Enobaria asks.

"No."

"What did you see? Anything we can use?" Quintus demands.

"Uh, yeah. He's an out-fighter. Likes to keep his distance. So just get right in there, crowd him. If it comes to that between the two of you."

Enobaria shakes her head and smiles sadistically, clearly pleased. "You dog you," she says affectionately to Cato. "I would never have taken you for a sneak."

Cato shrugs. "It's not like I went looking for it. I just happened on it. And what was I supposed to do? Ignore it? Not use the info? Oh, and uh...he leads with his right," he says, turning to Quintus. "Now come, on, let's practice."

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 **Thanks for reading! Please, please, please review!**


	3. Get It Together Man

When he finally does speak to her, it's in anger (later in life, when he understands himself better, he will look back and realize that it was really fear masked by anger).

He is sitting in Clove's apartment after the private sessions with the gamemakers, and they're watching as the scores are announced.

Quintus and Clove both get a 10, and everyone claps them roughly on the back, which is the closest people from 2 ever come to hugging one another.

When they announce that Katniss Everdeen has scored an 11, his reaction is identical to everyone else's.

"What the _fuck_?!" they all yell. "What did she _do_?"

Cato knows that she must have done something with her bow and arrows and he is losing his shit. He thought she was smarter than this. He thought she knew better than to show her skills off to _anyone_ , even the gamemakers, but clearly he's wrong.

 _Do you realize what you've done?_ he rails mentally to his tribute.

Now they're all out for blood on the second floor. Katniss Everdeen's blood to be specific.

"She's gonna pay for this," Clove is muttering. "She's gonna fucking pay."

"Cato, what do you think she did?" Enobaria asks.

"I have no idea," Cato lies.

"You have to get it out of her," Marcus says. "Beat it out of her if you have to."

He stands abruptly and strides out of the apartment to avoid breaking the glass in his hand over Marcus's head.

"What did you do?!" he demands when he corners her in the living room.

"Like I'm stupid enough to tell you!" she shoots back.

"Now they'll all be gunning for you in that arena and-"

"And what? Your mentoring stats? Your reputation? If you were so worried about that then maybe you should try to get me some fucking sponsors. But I have to get 'em myself somehow cuz you sure as shit aren't gonna help me!"

"I have a plan!" he bellows. He's right up in her face. "I _am_ gonna help you!"

"Really?!" she yells back, shoving him in the chest with her right arm. "And was yanking my arm out of its socket part of your _plan_?"

He looks down and sees that she is holding her left arm gingerly against her body. Whatever she did in that scoring room has caused her shoulder to bother her again.

"Trust me," he pleads, his voice softening. "I-"

" _Trust_ you?" ( _Yes.)_ "Are you _insane_?" ( _Maybe._ ) "Do you think I'm _stupid_?" ( _No_.) She's looking at him as though he's grown two heads.

"Listen to me," he begs.

But she will not. "There's no way in hell I'd ever trust you with anything. You're a monster. I doubt you've ever done _one_ good thing in your life. Now get the fuck out of my way and leave me alone so I can live what's left of my life in peace!"

She shoves him again with her right arm, but it's her words that make him stagger backwards, allowing her to escape.

She's right. What has he ever done to earn her trust?

He wants so badly for her to trust him though, _needs_ her to trust him. If he can get her out of that arena alive, if he can do one good thing, specifically _this_ good thing, if he can get her to trust him then he will be born again. He will be pure. He will be clean. His life will not have been a waste.

It is how he serves her that will ultimately determine his worth as a man. It is what she sees when she looks at him. This is how he will measure himself from now on. Not in the number of victors he's mentored or tributes he's killed or women he's had sex with.

xxxxxxxxxx

He doesn't help her prepare for her interview the next day. Obviously.

It's Cinna and Effie who take on that task.

She's breathtaking. Stunning. Her gown is encrusted with gems and she really looks like she's on fire. When the lights hit her, when she moves even the tiniest bit, she throws off so much spark you almost have to shield your eyes with your hand.

Still. He likes her better in a black silk robe, with bare legs and feet and her hair loose around her face.

It's hell waiting for her name to be called.

She's terribly nervous when she goes on. He can tell. But not for long-she works into it almost immediately. Cato learns that she likes lamb stew with dried plums and then she makes a joke about being terrified of burning alive in her parade costume that has the audience roaring. She gushes over Cinna's talent and twirls around and her dress catches on fire and she actually _giggles_. The audience loves her.

When they ask her about training under Cato, however, her demeanor completely changes. She purses her lips and refers to him as "instructive." He's not quite sure what that means. Well, he knows what the _word_ means, but he's not quite sure what _she_ means by it.

But she's back to smiling when Caesar asks her how she got that 11. It puts Cato on edge and he straightens in his seat, every muscle in his body tensing. She's sly. She can't talk about it she says, and she looks over to where the gamemakers are sitting. They nod and chuckle at her as though they're all sharing a private joke. Cato is relieved. He didn't think she'd be silly enough to give away her talent, but then again, he'd assumed she'd lay low in her scoring session and it turned out he was wrong about that so…

And finally, they ask her about her sister. She goes ice cold. Caesar asks her what she said in reply when Prim requested she try her hardest to win. Her voice is low and dangerous as she says "I swore I would," and Cato actually shivers in his seat. So much for the girl on fire. Tonight she's an ice queen.

xxxxxxxxxx

She's gotten a decent amount of sponsor money. She's placed fifth in that category this year. She's the highest-grossing non-career of the Third Quarter Quell thanks to the combination of volunteering for her little sister, being on fire (literally) twice, and scoring the only 11 in the history of the games.

But it's not enough for what Cato's got planned.

So after the interviews, he doesn't go back to the Training Center.

Instead, he goes to Tony Waterford's mansion. You could say that Tony and Cato are buddies. Or, at least as much as two emotionally crippled guys who don't really know each other all that well can be. Tony is the richest person in Panem besides the president and the gamemakers. He's not a self-made man by any means. He's the same age as Cato. His father, who was Cato's biggest sponsor when he entered the arena, passed away a year ago, leaving Tony the sole heir to the Waterford fortune.

Cato's about to take a big gamble. He's praying Tony won't take what he's about to tell him back to Enobaria, and therefore to Clove and Quintus.

"Cato!" Tony calls with delight when the Avox ushers him in. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be resting up for Quintus?"

"Quintus isn't technically my tribute."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Come on man. Cut the bullshit."

"No. Seriously. I'm not backing him."

"So Clove then? What...are you fucking her? Isn't she only sixteen?"

"Not fucking her. And not backing her."

Now Tony doesn't roll his eyes, but narrows them. "What's going on with you?"

Cato tells him. About how he cut Katniss twice and she stitched herself up. About how he made her spend a night in the cold and the wet on the roof. About how he yanked her arm out of its socket. About how she can shoot like nothing he's ever seen. About how she started hunting to provide for her family at the age of eleven. About Brutus's final words to him. That Katniss has no idea he's doing this because she's far too smart to trust him. That he needs money for her. Lots of it. Everything Tony's willing to give.

Tony's willing to give a lot it turns out. Enough to make her the highest-grossing tribute _ever_.

Cato sighs with relief. "Thank you," he says. "I wasn't sure you'd do it."

"She's gotta be worth it. Seeing as you're willing to incur the wrath of your home district for her. You do realize they'll disown you for this, right? In 2. They'll call you traitor. So...are you sure? Cuz you can always call this off. And they'll never know we had this little conversation."

But Cato doesn't hesitate. Cato doesn't falter. "Hand over the money. But not before tomorrow morning when the hovercraft lifts off and it's too late for the other tributes to find out. I don't want 'em getting their panties in a twist over her anymore than they already have. She's got a huge fucking target on her back as it is."

"So it doesn't bother you? That your life is about to change entirely? That you're about to become an outcast?"

"Not at all," Cato says, and he means it. "I don't give a rat's ass."

xxxxxxxxxx

He's not sure if it's the longest night of his life or the shortest, but it's definitely the most agonizing. He doesn't even try to sleep. He just sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

He wonders if she's awake too. She probably is. He wonders what she would do if he slipped into her room and tried to take her in his arms. She'd probably spit in his eye and call him a monster. And he wouldn't blame her.

xxxxxxxxxx

They put a plate in front of her the next morning with bacon and scrambled eggs and toast. She picks up the fork with a shaking hand and she takes two bites and then she swallows hard and pushes the plate away.

He knows how she feels. Like the food sticks in the back of her throat. Like she's going to vomit.

He waved his plate away for the same reason earlier this morning.

"Water," he says. "You need to at least drink a glass of water."

She raises her eyes to his face and he braces himself for her (well-deserved) venom. But there's nothing but fear in her gray eyes. In fact, he's not even sure she's comprehended his words. He's not sure she knows who he is right now.

So he goes over to her chair and he fills her glass from the water pitcher and he hands it to her. Her hand shakes so hard that she loses about a quarter of it onto her lap.

He's shaking too, but he's managing better than her. So he takes the glass from her and he places one hand on the back of her head and he lifts the glass to her lips. She tilts her head back and takes a few gulps, her eyes wide and glassy on his.

Yeah. She has no idea who he is right now.

He lowers the glass to give her time to take a couple of breaths and then he lifts it back up to her mouth and coaxes her to take a few more sips.

He repeats this process until the glass is empty.

When he turns to set it down, he sees Cinna standing in the doorway, staring at him in shock.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Turn and run," he says just before the Peacekeepers escort her to the hovercraft. "Don't go for anything in the Cornucopia."

Her eyes are still wide and glassy. She's not hearing what he's saying.

"Turn and run," he repeats fiercely. "Stay away from the Cornucopia."

Still no response.

"Katniss!" he cries hoarsely, grabbing her good shoulder and shaking her. "Listen to me! Stay away from the Cornucopia!"

Nothing. She's practically catatonic.

He's frantic.

He slaps her across the face. She blinks and shakes her head a little but her eyes are still glassy. "Katniss!" He doesn't know if you can literally slap some sense into someone or if it's just a saying, but he's gonna try goddammit.

He draws his hand back, ready to slap her again when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"I got it Cato," Cinna says soothingly. "I'll tell her when I'm dressing her."

"It's time," says one of the Peacekeepers, taking a hold of her left elbow and tugging.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Cato roars, getting right in the Peacekeeper's face. He's immediately surrounded by a circle of them, their tranq guns raised and aimed straight at his chest.

She's still catatonic.

Cinna steps in, hands raised. "What he means is that her left shoulder is a little...sensitive. If you could just escort her by the right arm, please. Thank you. I apologize. Cato's a little jumpy this morning."

And then they're leading her away and he's losing control and his heart is racing and he's having a hard time breathing and his vision is going all spotty and he thinks maybe he's gonna pass out.

And then SMACK! Cinna has slapped him across the face hard enough to set his teeth rattling.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" the stylist asks. "I've never seen you like this. Get it together man."

Cinna's right. He'll be of no use to her like this. He's got to concentrate. He shakes his head to clear it. "She can shoot," he says quietly.

"Shoot?"

"Yeah. Bow and arrow. Like nothing I've ever seen. I'm gonna send her one. Right away."

"Do you have any idea how expensive-"

"Yes. And I have the money. Waterford's sending it to me."

"Cato. I don't understand. Are you backing her over Quintus and Clove?"

"Yes."

"Does she know?"

"No."

"I...wha...they will _hate_ you for this. They'll never forgive you. You won't be able to go back to 2."

Cato shrugs and gives Cinna a grim smile. "So be it."

xxxxxxxxxx

The money's in her account exactly one minute and thirty-two seconds after the hovercraft lifts off.

It is the longest minute and thirty-two seconds of Cato's life, and he's called Waterford every nasty name he can think of, certain that the little fucker has reneged, until the money appears and then he crows triumphantly.

Effie Trinket just stares at him as though he's gone mad.

Maybe he has.


	4. Weapon of Choice

When he sees the arena he almost cries with relief. It's a forest like the one in 12. She will be at home here. She will be in her element.

But his mood darkens again when her plate rises out of the earth and it becomes apparent that Cinna did not, in fact, manage to get through to her about the Cornucopia and his plan to send her a bow. The gamemakers, those assholes, they've placed her weapon of choice right in her line of vision. Right where she can see it. Close enough to tempt her to take the risk. Her eyes are no longer glassy. They are greedy. They are fixed on that stupid fucking bow.

When the gong sounds, she jumps a little. She's startled. She's the last one off of her plate. She runs right for that bow. But she doesn't get her hands on it because she's almost killed twice. First by the boy from 9, but she's saved by one of Clove's knives. But then Clove aims for her, and she's up and running, using the pack she won in her struggle with 9 as a shield, and the knife that Clove hurls at her gets lodged in the orange canvas.

Cato's screaming at the top of his lungs. He's calling her awful names.

But then she's running and eventually she finds herself miles away from anyone else. She hoists herself up into a tree and opens up her pack to survey its contents. There's a sleeping bag, some crackers, some beef jerky, a bottle of iodine, some matches, some wire, and an empty canteen. And of course, the knife that Clove almost killed her with.

So. Water it is then. Along with the bow(left-handed compound, lightweight and small) and arrows (a dozen of them in a thigh quiver).

No note. Because, really, what is there to say? _Sorry about your shoulder? I know we hardly ever spoke to each other and I abused you, but I'm in love with you because of that one time you touched my face for like three seconds?_ Yeah. That'll go over well. That's not creepy. At all.

She's just finished belting herself and her sleeping bag into the tree when the soft chimes draw her attention. He can see the confusion on her face.

It turns to awe when she opens the (rather large) capsule and finds her gift.

She lifts the bow out almost reverently, her hands shaking. "How-?" she whispers.

She lets out a small gasp when she sees the liter of water, and she immediately downs about a quarter of it before recapping it securely and slipping it into her pack.

She has seen enough games in her lifetime to know the value of such a gift. She must realize that it is, by far, the most expensive one ever.

So expensive, in fact, that it has cost her almost everything she has.

xxxxxxxxxx

It's like whiplash.

Things are going well, then they're not. They're going well again, then they're not.

Cato doesn't remember his games being this stressful.

The little twat from 8 builds a fire not ten yards from where Katniss is hiding, drawing the career pack straight to her, and Cato's back to screaming nasty names, although this time his rage isn't directed at his tribute.

Thankfully, no one notices Katniss and she remains safely hidden in the foliage.

Her nerves have got to be frayed. Because his sure are. He never understood that saying before but he does now.

Sure, she has her bow, but there were five of them in that pack. And she's belted in a tree, her back up against the trunk. It's not exactly the easiest position to shoot from. And her shoulder...her shoulder. Would it hold up for five draws in a row? God he hopes it would, but he's not sure.

xxxxxxxxxx

He's proud of her when she snares the rabbit and cooks it in the embers from 8's fire. And when she uses a charred piece of wood to camouflage her pack. He'd been nervous about it; it was bright orange, and he was hoping she'd have the sense to filthy it up. He should really know better than to underestimate her at this point.

She's careful with her water, but after a couple of days it runs out and then she can't find any for a couple more. It's getting to her. She's growing clumsy and slow (thank god there's no one else around for miles). Her skin is dry and ashy, her lips are cracked and bleeding.

Eventually she falls to her knees and she opens her mouth and croaks out "Water."

It breaks his heart. She's talking to him, he knows it. She's begging him. It's all he can do not to give in to her pitiful plea. He's biting his nails down to the quick, and his cuticles have started to bleed.

They can monitor her vitals in real time through her tracker, and Cinna has his eyes glued to the screen displaying them. She's not dead yet. But she's probably only got about three more hours tops before the apathy and the surrender and then unconsciousness set in, and then she'll be done for. She'll probably never wake up.

But she is just shy of two hundred yards from a pond and if he buys her a pint of water he'll use up everything she's got left, and he's not sure if he'll be able to get her more money. If it comes down to it, he'll send her the water, but not unless he absolutely has to.

He places the call and tells them to get it ready to go, but he orders them to wait until he calls again to send it in.

He sees the confusion and anger on her face when a parachute fails to appear. He sees the wheels turning in her head. She's wondering why the fuck he would send her a bow and a quiver of arrows but then leave her to die of thirst.

"Come on," he whispers to her. "Come on. You're smarter than this. You _know_ why I'm not sending it to you. Get up. Get up. You can do this."

And then, in such slow motion it would be comical if she weren't on the verge of dying, he sees the light bulb turn on in her head. She knows. He either doesn't have enough money to send her water or she's close to a source. Either way, it means she's got to get up and keep trying to find it.

Not half an hour later she crawls to the edge of the pond and he and Cinna and Effie expel a collective sigh of relief.

She fills the liter bottle and the canteen and she puts in her iodine and she waits the required half hour and then she lets out a little cry (croak, really) of joy, and takes a swig. And then another. And another.

The effect is almost instantaneous.

Cato, who never even came close to dehydration in his games, closes his eyes and brings his glass to his mouth and savors the sip of water he takes as though it is the finest, most expensive whiskey in the world.

xxxxxxxxxx

Out of the frying pan and literally into the fire.

In her haste to escape it, her foot catches on a tree root and she instinctively puts out her arms to break her fall.

The roar of the forest fire masks the _pop_ of her left shoulder this time, but the twist of her features lets him know immediately that she's dislocated it.

She doesn't stop to wallow in self-pity though. She's fueled by adrenaline and fear, and she leaps back up and continues her flight.

It's not fast enough. She can't pump her left arm; it's hanging useless by her side, slowing her down significantly.

So she pauses, right there in the middle of the fire, and she pulls down on her left wrist and pushes her arm back. She closes her eyes and grits her teeth and he can tell she's gathering her courage, and then she twists and rams her arm back into place.

She hasn't even finished expelling her involuntary cry of pain when the fireball hits her calf, just below the knee. It has the strange effect of halting her in the middle of her scream even as it spurs her legs back into flight.

Somehow (probably because the gamemakers aren't ready to let her die yet), she makes it out of there.

She drops to her knees and heaves and retches, though very little actually comes up. She gasps and sucks in as much air as she can.

She's a mess. Her face is black with soot. At some point during her flight, a fireball scorched off half of her braid, and now her hair is wild and tangled and comes to just above her shoulder. Half of the back of her jacket is also charred and useless. The burn on her calf is bright red and blistery. It looks excruciating.

Cato feels her relief when she stumbles into a shallow pool. He watches as she bathes her face and examines her burn and cuts her pant leg off at the knee. The fabric sticks to her skin, and for the second time in less than an hour, she closes her eyes and grits her teeth as she gathers her courage, and then she rips it off. Some of her flesh comes with it and Cato almost vomits. Katniss lets out a pitiful cry and then she whimpers a few times. Her face turns green and she breaks out in what Cato assumes is a cold sweat.

"Oh jesus. Effie!" he hears Cinna say, and he turns his head to find that the District 12 escort has fainted.

Katniss soaks her leg in that pool for almost an hour before the careers stumble upon her. From the mentoring room, Cato and Cinna have been able to monitor their approach for the last five minutes, and by now their throats are raw from fruitlessly yelling at her to get up and hide.

Quintus sees her first and lets out the most chillingly sadistic laugh Cato has ever heard, and panic sets in. Cato can hear his voice in his head. _Paint the ground with her blood. Make sure she lives up to that stupid nickname. Plumb her depths._ _All_ _of them._

They have her treed in under three minutes.

"This is my fault," Cinna laments. "Girl on Fire. Her parade costume."

But Cato doesn't blame Cinna. He knows exactly whose fault this is.

She hadn't fallen particularly hard when she tripped over that tree root, but just one dislocated shoulder is enough to loosen the joint and the ligaments and lead to the same injury all over again.

She would never have knocked it back out of the socket from that fall if not for him. She would never have had to stop to put it back in place, and so she would have been safely out of the reach of that fireball. She wouldn't have lingered in that shallow pool to nurse her burn, so she wouldn't have been seen by Quintus. She wouldn't have been treed.

He has never hated himself so much. God he _fucking_ _hates_ himself. He closes his eyes and clenches his fists and his jaw, but his body is unable to contain his rage and self-loathing. His eyes fly open and he lets out a roar and he flips the table. He kicks the chairs. He smashes every glass in sight. He hurls the lamps. He picks up a pen and stabs himself in the thigh with it. He turns and punches the cinder block wall as hard as he can over and over and over again.

And then everything goes black.

xxxxxxxxxx

He wakes to see Cinna staring down at him. "Katniss?" he rasps. His voice is shot.

"She's still up in that tree. Her shoulder is swollen and bruised. I think she fucked it up even more climbing up there. She can draw but barely. She trained an arrow on Marvel but she had to let up pretty quickly. Too excruciating. You gotta stop this Cato. You can't do it again. Not while she's still alive. Effie and I aren't allowed to make any decisions about sponsor gifts. She's been sitting up in that tree for the last three hours and she needs something to put on that burn. But they won't let us order it."

So now he hates himself even more, but this time the feeling is dull and sick and green. She's been sitting in a tree suffering because he went apeshit and got himself tranqued by Peacekeepers.

"You broke your hand," Cinna says.

Cato looks down to where his right hand has been wrapped up. Blood is seeping from the white cotton. Now that he thinks about it, it really fucking hurts. He panics.

"Did they give me painkillers?"

"No. Your judgement's already questionable enough without 'em."

He heaves a sigh of relief and sits up.

"It's gonna need surgery," Cinna says.

"Her shoulder?"

"Your hand."

"Fuck my hand. We have enough for something for her burn right?"

"Yes, but just barely. Thank god you didn't end up having to send that water to her."

Cato closes his eyes and adds it to his list of reasons to hate himself. Wasting precious sponsor money on medicine for a burn she never would have sustained if not for him. He will _never_ forgive himself, he decides. Even if she makes it out alive.

And why had he done it anyway? Dislocated her shoulder that day? Because she'd told him the truth? Said out loud what he'd known deep down inside for years?

But enough self-loathing. He'll have plenty of time for that afterward, while he's tying the noose he plans to hang himself with.

Right now he has a phone call to make.

xxxxxxxxxx

There's nothing he can do for her shoulder. Well, that's not true. He could buy pills that would give her some relief and cut down on the swelling. But if he does that then he can't buy the salve for her calf, which means the risk of the burn becoming infected will skyrocket.

Besides, he knows her. If it comes down to it (and it probably will) she'll grit her teeth and shoot through the pain.

Her saving grace is that she's so tiny. By his estimation she's about sixty pounds lighter than Clove, the smallest career. She's got to be eighty feet up and she's perched on a branch that's practically a twig. None of the careers can come close to her.

They're loaded with weapons-knives and spears and swords-but gravity is against them, and Cinna tells him that while he was unconscious, Marvel made a few embarrassingly unsuccessful attempts with the spear and then gave up.

So now the five of them are camped at the base of the tree, determined to wait her out, and she's sighing _thank you_ with relief as she rubs the salve into her burn.

Her other saving grace, besides her diminutive size, is that she's got a full canteen plus that one-liter bottle of water and most of her crackers and jerky. She can stay up there for two days, maybe three. She'll be hungry, but it's nothing she can't handle. Maybe he can concoct a plan for her during that time. Maybe he can get more sponsors and buy her something to help her escape. But as he and Cinna wrack their brains, they can't come up with anything. She already has a weapon that she can use (albeit with excruciating pain) and it's not like the gamemakers will let him send in an assault rifle for her, even if by some miracle he could afford to.

And then Rue, that tiny little thing from 11, appears in a nearby tree and shows Katniss the tracker jacker nest.

Cato isn't sure how he feels about it. It's risky. If it goes according to plan, she'll clear them all out and escape to (relative) safety. But if it goes awry and she gets stung in the process...

But then, if she ignores the nest and resorts to shooting, she could end up wasting arrows, because the careers will break them, and as good as she is, it's unlikely she'll be able to take all five of them down. Some will inevitably flee just out of reach, but still close enough to start stalking her again once she descends from the tree. Plus, she could maim herself even more. As it stands, she's gonna need surgery on that shoulder if she wins this thing.

In the end, he comes to the conclusion that the nest is the better plan.

She clearly agrees, because as the sun begins to rise over the tops of the trees the next morning, she climbs onto a branch just above the nest and gets to work on sawing off the limb.

It's slow going. She's trying to be quiet so she doesn't wake the careers, she's trying to be gentle so she doesn't disturb the tracker jackers too soon, and she's using her non-dominant arm to saw the branch off.

But she finally manages to send it crashing to the forest floor below and it's brilliant. It kills Glimmer from 1 and Serena from 4 and sends the other three shrieking and sprinting for the lake.

Katniss has been stung three times, but she has the good sense to pull the stingers out immediately, and she's safely out of the tree and headed in the opposite direction of the lake before she starts shaking and screaming and then, finally, falls into a shallow hole filled with leaves and passes out.

The three remaining careers have all passed out too. And no one else is anywhere close to his tribute. So Cato breathes a sigh of relief. Even though she's unconscious, she's ok. For now.

He's startled when the door swings open and there's Haymitch from 12, who had been assigned to the tributes from 4, both of whom are dead at this point. Cato thinks he might actually be sober for once.

"What the fuck is going on?" are the first words out of Haymitch's mouth. His eyes are narrowed on Cato's face with suspicion.

"Umm, she got stung…"

"No. Why are you helping her?"

"Because I'm supposed to," Cato says slowly.

"Bullshit."

Cato shakes his head confusedly. He's not quite sure how to respond to this. "Sorry?"

"You sent her a bow. A left-handed one. I told her not to tell you she could shoot."

"She didn't tell me. I found out on my own. And you weren't supposed to talk to her. When the hell did you tell her not to tell me she could shoot?"

"On the platform when we got off the train. I pretended to be shit-faced and I 'stumbled' into her. But don't change the subject. Why are you helping her?"

Cato sighs. He doesn't feel like explaining. And it's nobody's business really, the way he feels about Katniss Everdeen. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Haymitch holds up his arms. "Seriously? I'm just supposed to accept that you're helping her for no reason whatsoever?"

"Does it matter why I'm helping her?" Cato asks with irritation. "Are you really gonna stand there and question it?"

"I-whoa, what the hell happened to your hand?"

Cato sighs again and glares at Haymitch.

"Lemme guess. You don't wanna talk about it."

"You're a quick one."

xxxxxxxxxx

It's a calm two days. At least for Katniss.

Three tributes are killed while she's out. When she wakes a little more than forty-eight hours after she passed out, there are only seven tributes left. Besides her, it's Quintus, Clove, Marvel, the girl from 5, Rue from 11 and the little twerp from 3, whose name is Aaron. The only reason he's still alive is because he's managed to convince the careers he can rig up the explosives from the tribute plates around their supply pile to protect it. Quintus really isn't into the idea and suggests they just off the boy, but Marvel sees its merits and he eventually gets Quintus to relent.

The first thing Katniss does when she comes to is sit there for a while, stretching her muscles and sipping her water. Then she stands and finds the stream and cleans herself up before shooting some kind of bird and roasting it over a fire concealed by the hazy conditions and the onset of dusk.

Cato's a little perturbed by the stealth with which little Rue follows Katniss, but she doesn't seem to be a threat, which confuses him. He's also not sure why exactly they decide to trust each other right off the bat after Katniss spies her boot poking out from the trees, but it turns out to be beneficial for the two of them. Rue's quite a forager and has gathered an impressive array of roots and berries and, added to the bird that Katniss has roasted, it makes one hell of a meal.

Rue knows how to tend Katniss's stings and Katniss shares her salve with Rue, who also sustained a burn, though only a minor one, during the forest fire.

The gamemakers block out most of their conversation (they must be talking about life in their districts), but there's enough footage to see just how warm and motherly Katniss can be, particularly when she snuggles up with Rue in her sleeping bag for the night.

Part of Cato is exasperated with her for being so soft, because it's shit like this that'll get her stabbed in the back in that arena, but part of him feels tender toward her for it, because it reminds him of the night she caressed his face.

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Cato is definitely _not_ a fan of their idea to try to destroy the careers' supply pile. Going soft may get Katniss stabbed in the back, but pulling a stunt like this is sure to incense Quintus and Clove enough to ensure a long, slow, agonizing death should they catch her. Not to mention, if she doesn't realize that the ground ringing the pile is rigged, she could blast herself skyhigh.

But there's nothing he can do except take to gnawing on his cuticles again.

They separate. The little girl stays back to light the fires to draw the careers, and Katniss heads for the treeline just to the south of their supply pile.

The screen splits in two so the viewers can watch what's happening in both places.

Katniss is almost to her destination when poor little Rue gets caught in a net right after she lights the second fire.

Clove and Marvel and Quintus, who have left 3 behind to watch over their stuff, roll their eyes when they arrive at the first fire and find no sign of anyone, and Cato hopes that maybe they'll realize it's just a trick and return to their home base. After Katniss is safely out of their path, of course.

But that's not what happens.

Thanks to the girl from 5 and her little game of hopscotch, Katniss has figured out that the supply pile is rigged. She's just aiming her first arrow when the careers arrive at the second fire and find Rue.

By the time that Katniss has shot her second arrow and the apples are threatening to spill out of the burlap sack, Marvel has impaled Rue with his spear.

Those sadistic assholes are laughing as the blood begins to soak through Rue's shirt and Marvel has retracted his spear when Katniss shoots her final arrow. The apples go tumbling and a series of explosions rock the ground beneath her feet as the twerp from 3, who was napping in the sun, is blown to bits. The force of the blast sends her flying backwards and for a second Cato is terrified that she will injure that left shoulder again, but it's her other side that takes the punishment. She sits up and rubs her right shoulder, but thankfully, it's in place. It's probably just bruised. Cato's not too worried about that.

But he is concerned about the blood dripping from her left ear. He doesn't think she's noticed it, though, because she pushes herself to a standing position and takes off running.

All three careers freeze in horror as they realize what's happening and, as if in slow motion, they pivot around to look at the smoke-filled sky. They completely forget about little Rue and leave her there to bleed out as they race back toward their supply pile.

Well… the field of ash and twisted metal that _used_ to be their supply pile.

Quintus and Marvel reach it first. Clove, whose legs are shorter than theirs, quickly falls behind.

Quintus lets out a guttural cry and and drops to his knees, sifting through the ruins, looking for anything salvageable, anything they can still use, while Marvel stands behind him, literally tearing his hair out in distress.

There is nothing. The water, the food, the iodine, the medical kits, the rope, the night-vision goggles, the sleeping bags...all of it has been obliterated.

Quintus, who, much like Cato, has a nasty temper, rises and turns and starts screaming at Marvel, berating him for letting 3 rig up those explosives. He's right in his face and he's so furious his spit is flying into 1's eye.

Within seconds they're shoving each other and Clove is yelling at them to stop as she emerges from the trees. She's got her hand on the hilt of one of her knives, but she's out of throwing range.

Quintus gets in a good shove that sends Marvel flying and tripping over a twisted piece of metal that was once that bow that Katniss eyed so hungrily from her plate.

When Marvel stands, he looks like a bull ready to charge. His fists are up at his sides, and then Quintus's are too.

They circle each other.

And then Quintus does exactly what Cato trained him to do the last few weeks before the games. He rushes right up into Marvel's space, just like a good swarmer should when he's up against an out-fighter.

But Marvel isn't an out-fighter. He's a brawler.

And he doesn't lead with his right. He leads with his left.

It takes one punch. One punch that Quintus steps right into instead of dodging. And he drops.

It only takes Marvel three more punches to bash his skull in. Quintus isn't dead yet, but he's comatose.

Clove is screeching and now she's in throwing distance. Marvel dodges two of her knives completely and is clipped on his temple by a third. He snatches up his spear and hurls it at her. It catches her pretty good in the ribs, causing her fourth knife to miss him again. They're tackling each other and he's on top and reaching for his spear and blood is going everywhere and she's got her hand on another one of her knives but now Marvel's fingers have found one that she threw at him earlier and he's going for her throat. She gives up on trying to unsheath that knife at her thigh and she brings her arms up to shield herself and he slashes her right across her forearms. She jerks one of her legs up and it unseats him just enough for her to snatch the knife from her holster. He recovers his balance-mostly-and he makes another swipe at her neck, but she jerks again and he catches her in her shoulder just as she slices right through his jugular.

His blood comes pouring out all over Clove, turning her red shirt black and coating her face and her chest. He slumps down over her and she crawls out from under him just as the cannon sounds for the boy from 1.

She pushes herself up on her hands and knees, panting with the trauma of it all, and crawls over to Quintus.

"No," she moans. "No-ho-ho. Quintus." She sobs into his chest and then she curls up at his side, her head on his shoulder as she waits for him to die, and Cato wonders if there was something going on between the two of them that he'd somehow managed to completely miss.

And then another cannon sounds.

But it's not for Quintus.

It's for Rue.

Katniss finds her just before the hovercraft descends, and in the few minutes she has with her little friend, she gently closes her eyes and brushes her hair from her forehead and places a handful of tiny white wildflowers between her fingers. She cries as she kisses her goodbye and then she stands and makes her way out of the clearing. Just as she reaches the treeline, she turns around and presses the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips and then she holds them out toward Rue. Cato doesn't understand what it means, but he remembers seeing footage of the people of 12 making that sign to Katniss after she volunteered.

"What does that mean?" he asks.

"Thanks," Haymitch says. "Admiration. Good-bye to someone you love."

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It takes two hours for Quintus to die.

After the hovercraft removes his body, a large capsule wafts down in front of Clove. It contains food and water and medical supplies so she can tend to her wounds. It's got to be incredibly expensive. Seeder has probably had to use up most of Clove's sponsor money, though it will have been the victors from 2 who told the old woman what to purchase.

Not even five minutes after Cloves opens it and pull out the contents, Enobaria and Alec are pounding on the door to the District 12 mentoring room.

"You fucking traitor!" they're screaming. "Come out here you coward!"

Cato stands and stalks toward the door. Haymitch grabs him by his sleeve, but he shakes him off.

"Cato," he warns.

"They won't kill me."

"You sure about that?"

But he's already opened the door. Enobaria launches herself at him and he tosses her off, practically spiking her into the floor, heedless of the condition of his right hand.

"You planned this!" she hisses as she pushes herself up off the carpet. "I was there! You _lied_ to Quintus! About Marvel! You fucking traitor!"

Alec is curling his lip in disgust at the man who mentored him through his games last year. "You got a thing for trash from 12? Is that it? You like your pussy covered in coal du-" He's cut off by Cato's fist meeting his teeth.

"They burnt your house to the ground back home," Enobaria shoots at him.

Cato shrugs. "Good for them." He couldn't care less. He doesn't want his big game trophies or his rosewood humidor or his Frette bed linens anyway. He just wants a girl with smoky gray eyes wearing a black silk robe with a mug of hot cocoa in her hand.

"You can never come back," Enobaria tells him. "Ever."

"You think I give a shit? I don't wanna go back there anyway. But I will." His voice is low, taunting. "One more time. For my tribute's victory tour."

"What would Brutus think?" she spits. 'What would he say if he could see you now?"

Cato stiffens and draws himself up to his full height. "You don't know the first thing about what Brutus would think. Now get the fuck out of my face."

She opens her mouth as if she's going to say something more, but the Peacekeepers have arrived and are ordering her and Alec out, their tranq guns raised.

He's forcing himself to calm down when Haymitch comes up beside him. "What _would_ Brutus say if he could see you now?" the victor from 12 asks.

Cato turns to look at him. "Finally. One of us did something good. That's what he'd say."


	5. To Build a Fire

**A/N: This chapter is inspired by/adapted from "To Build a Fire" by Jack London, which is my very favorite short story.**

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There are three of them left. All girls. It's a first in the history of the games.

The temperature drops dramatically throughout the evening and it's snowing heavily by the time the sun sets.

Katniss holes up between the massive roots of a tree as soon as the flakes start coming down. She piles brush and spruce boughs up to create a wall that's a few feet high and she cuts a small section of her sleeping bag off and wraps it around her exposed calf to protect it from the cold and she secures it with some of the leftover wire from her pack. Then she builds a tiny fire within the confines of her little shelter. It's not going to last long, but Cato understands what she's trying to do-trap some of that heat in there with her before night falls and she has to extinguish the flames to avoid being discovered.

The sun is just about to set when she stamps it out.

The four of them-Cato and Effie and Haymitch and Cinna-watch as the snow slows and then stops and the clouds dissipate. But the temperature continues to drop, degree by degree.

Haymitch is keeping one eye on the computer screen that shows the stats on her vitals. He has not touched a drop of liquor since he first entered the mentoring room with Cato.

Katniss shows no signs of hypothermia or frostbite. But she's shivering violently as she huddles in on herself in her sleeping bag, and she's blowing on her hands continuously. Her teeth are chattering so furiously that the microphones pick up the sound.

Cato stares at the product list until his vision goes blurry. There are blankets and hats and socks and coats and even pants, all of them with battery powered heating units woven right into the fabric. But she doesn't have enough money for any of those things.

He hates himself. Again. This is his fault. Again. If he hadn't had to buy that salve for her burn he could buy her a self-heating blanket. She could be nice and cozy. But he's an utter fuckup.

He can't stand to watch her suffer anymore. It's enough already. Thirst and burns and tracker jacker attacks and excruciating pain and now bone-chilling cold.

He draws his feet up onto the chair and his knees into his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and he buries his face in his thighs.

 _No_ he tells himself. _No. Don't hide your face you fucking coward. Look at her. Have the decency to look at what you've done._

But he can't bring himself to lift his head.

Until he hears the soft _ding_ that signals a deposit in her account.

He is shocked by the amount. It's nothing compared to what Waterford gave at the start of her games, but it's enough to buy her that blanket.

"Who is it from?" Cinna asks.

"I don't know," Cato starts to say as he clicks on the link. "Holy shit!"

So many firsts and records under her belt, this scrappy little thing.

First non-career to volunteer for the games.

Highest training score ever.

Highest-grossing tribute ever.

Part of the first all-female final three.

And now she is the first tribute to ever receive a sponsor gift from another District.

The people of 11 have pooled together their meager resources to back her.

"You gonna buy her the blanket?" Cinna asks.

"Yeah," Cato says, but then another item catches his eye. "Wait. No. Never mind."

"No?" Effie says. "But Cato, look at the poor little thing...she's freezing."

"I know," he says to Effie. And then he turns to face the screen. "I'm sorry," he whispers to Katniss. "But you need these more."

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She scrunches up her nose in disgust as she peeks into the capsule, and then she pulls out the paper-thin pair of black gloves. She holds them up to the silvery moonlight. She can see through them.

Cato knows what she's thinking. _Useless._

 _Come on_ he thinks. _Give me some credit_. _Have some faith in me._ _Trust_ _me. Even though I don't deserve it._

As she lowers the gloves, the strands of fabric gleam subtly, almost imperceptibly. She frowns and holds them back up to the light, and he knows that now she sees. Interwoven with the black nylon threads are thousands of teeny metallic wires, no thicker than a strand of her hair. They're a steely color, almost-but not quite-as dark as the rest of the gloves.

She continues her examination, and finds, on the wristband of each, a small, hard nodule about the size of a pea embedded in the fabric. She presses on one of them and it makes a faint clicking noise.

She slips the glove on and narrows her eyes as she stares down at her hand, as though she's waiting. And then joy spreads across her face at the same rate, Cato suspects, as the warmth spreading through her fingers. She lets out a tiny gasp of delight and presses the nodule on the second glove before slipping it on.

Ten minutes later she's wiggling her fingers nimbly, even though the rest of her is shivering. She picks up her bow in one hand, and with the other, she plucks an arrow from her quiver. She nocks it with her usual grace and precision and dexterity, although she grimaces from the pain in her shoulder. Her fingers tighten on the bow.

Another small gasp of joy catches in her throat.

She can still shoot. Even in this cold. Even with the gloves on. They're so delicate they don't hinder her at all.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispers, and Cato knows she's talking to him.

Haymitch chuckles. "Does it matter?" he answers, even though she can't hear him. "Are you really gonna question it sweetheart?"

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The girl from 5 dies the next afternoon after another couple of feet of snow have fallen. She does not have a sleeping bag or gloves or matches to start a fire like Katniss does, and she doesn't have enough sponsor money to buy anything useful at this point. It seems inevitable that she will freeze to death.

But that's not what happens. Instead, she finds a nightlock bush and lifts a handful of berries, which are the same color as her lips, to her mouth and chews on them clumsily. Half of them spill back out. That's how numb her face and tongue are.

She's dead less than a minute later.

They said she was smart. Smart enough to know the difference between nightlock and blueberries.

So they were either wrong about her or she just wanted her suffering to be over with.

Cato suspects it's the latter.

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Clove isn't faring much better. Cato had figured that they had spent almost everything she had on that sponsor gift yesterday and he's right. The temperature had been in the 60s at the time of Quintus's death, and the Victors from 2 obviously hadn't anticipated that the gamemakers would drop it by fifty degrees.

She has no sleeping bag. No gloves. No matches.

She has been jogging around to keep warm, and it's been serving her alright so far.

But she doesn't realize that she's running straight toward a small, shallow pond that's hardly more than a puddle. It has developed a thin layer of ice and is blanketed by a couple of feet of snow. She catches herself, but not before her right foot and calf break through the ice and plunge into the water beneath. Her boot is waterproof, but it only comes just past her ankle. The moisture of her pant leg is quickly seeping down into her sock.

She tries to run it off, but after a while her right leg is growing clumsy and she keeps stumbling. She's also growing physically exhausted even though she's hydrated and well-fed, because she lost quite a bit of blood from the injuries she sustained during her fight with Marvel the day before.

Her stumbles become more frequent and it's getting more difficult for her to get back up each time, and eventually, she gives up and just sits there, drawing herself into a ball.

It's then, as she's huddling in on herself that she suddenly jerks her head up. She fumbles around in her interior breast pocket, pawing at the fabric, and after a bit she produces a small book of matches that she had placed in there days ago and then forgotten about. She crows victoriously.

It gives her a fresh burst of energy and she's up and stumbling toward a tree and she's blowing furiously on her fingers, which she's kept in her pockets this whole time to ward off frostbite.

She reaches a spruce and begins to snap off twigs and branches. But her hands were already pretty numb to begin with, and now they're completely exposed to the icy air, so she's slow and clumsy. Somehow, she manages. She gets her twigs and her branches piled up and she digs into her pack and draws out all of her extra cotton bandages, the big square ones meant for her cuts, and stuffs them at the base.

She rubs her hands together almost violently and tucks her hands into her sleeves and blows into them. After a few minutes, she seems to think she's regained the motor skills required to light the match, and she's right. She does it.

Her fire goes up. It's small, but it'll do and she's warming her hands beside it and then she's fumbling at her frozen boot laces.

Her hands are growing clumsy again though, and her original flare-up has died down. It's time to add more fuel. She reaches over to the tree and takes hold of a thin branch and gives a good tug. It snaps off, but she has agitated all of the boughs above and around it.

Boughs that are covered with snow.

Snow that comes crashing down right on top of her fire.

She just sits there for a minute or two in shock, staring at the spot where her fire had been.

And then she panics. She's frantically grabbing at branches and twigs and piling them up a second time. Her movements grow clumsy again, and now she lacks the dexterity to just pick out the dry twigs; she's forced to grab entire handfuls of wet twigs and needles. She gets her pile ready and, once again, she alternates between rubbing her hands together and blowing on them for a few minutes, and then she gets her matches out and, somehow, after a lot of fumbling, she manages to get one lit.

But there are no cotton bandages this time to catch the initial flame because she wasted them all the first time and there's too much wet stuff mixed into her pile and the match goes out.

She lets out a cry, a pitiful one, and even Cato is finding this hard to watch.

She reaches for her matches again, but she can barely grasp them. It takes her three tries before she finally gets them in her hand. How she's going to manage to tear one off, let alone strike it, he has no idea.

It's then that Katniss appears from the gloom, not ten yards from her, her bow drawn.

Clove looks up at her as she approaches. She takes in the bow and the arrow and the thin black gloves and then, finally, the solemn expression on Katniss's face.

Her hand goes for one of her knives, but her numb, clumsy, gloveless fingers can't even close around the hilt tight enough to unsheath it from its holster.

She smiles a small smile. A sad smile. A knowing smile.

Her dark brown eyes hold no accusations and no judgement. Only acceptance.

"W-w-well?" she says, her teeth chattering. "Wh-wh-what ar-r-r-e you w-w-w-waiting f-f-for-r-r?"

Katniss un-nocks the arrow and puts it in her quiver and she slings her bow over her shoulder. Cato is confused, until she reaches into her cargo pocket and pulls out her knife. She intends to slit Clove's throat so that she will die as quickly and painlessly as possible.

"N-n-no. N-n-n-ot w-w-with a kn-n-ife-fe-fe."

Cato understands. Clove does not want to die by the weapon she is so famous for back in 2. By the knife she threw at Katniss that first day in the arena.

Katniss understands too. She doesn't protest. She simply replaces the knife and and takes her arrow back out and nocks it and draws the bowstring back, grimacing from the pain in her shoulder.

"Where do you want it?" she asks, her voice gentle. "Brainstem will be least painful."

Clove stands slowly, unsteadily. "I w-w-w-won't g-g-g-o out like-ke a c-c-coward." And her useless fingers go for her belt as her near useless feet begin to stumble toward Katniss.

She is slow and inept as she makes one final, pathetic show of aggression and Katniss doesn't display an ounce of fear. Just heavy resignation.

She aims the arrow straight at Clove's heart and releases. And as the tip of it hits home, she looks her straight in the eye. Clove doesn't fall immediately, but simply staggers back and to the side a little, almost in slow motion, before sinking to her knees into the snow and pitching forward, catching herself on her forearms.

Katniss drops her bow and quiver and Clove's breath turns raspy, and blood begins to drip steadily from her chest.

A few quick steps bring Katniss to kneel at Clove's side and she takes hold of her shoulder. Clove coughs, spattering the pristine white snow in front of her with crimson drops.

Katniss settles cross-legged beside the still-shivering Clove, and guides her to lie down on her back, her head in her lap.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Th-th-they l-l-l-lied t-to m-m-me. T-to us-s-s."

Katniss looks down at her soberly. She puts her warm hand on Clove's forehead and begins to smooth the hair off of it. Clove closes her lids and sighs a raspy, bubbly sigh, and blood trickles from the corner of her mouth as a tear trickles from the corner of her eye.

Katniss lifts her head and looks at the sun setting over the tops of the trees, and she starts to sing.

Afterwards, Cato doesn't really remember the words of the song (something about meadows and pillows and willows), but he remembers how her voice sounds like silk. Soft and hushed and smooth and dry.

The cannon sounds about three quarters of the way through her song. She doesn't flinch or blink or acknowledge it in any way. She simply sits, shivering now, and stares at the sunset as she runs her hand through a dead girl's hair, and she finishes her song.

She displays no discernible reaction to the announcement of her victory.

When the hovercraft arrives, the Peacekeepers are forced to descend and collect Clove's corpse, her head still on Katniss's lap, and then to lift the newest Victor into their arms and carry her inside.

Cato stands from his chair and walks past Cinna and Effie and Haymitch and into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him gently, and then he slides down the wall until he comes to sit on the cold tiles.

His body begins to shake, just like Katniss's in the arena. But it's not from the cold. It's from relief.

 _I did it_ he says silently to his dead mentor. _I did something good_.

When he emerges a handful of minutes later, his three companions stare at him, shocked at his red, puffy eyes. He figures it'll be Haymitch, that bastard, who will make some smart-ass comment. But he doesn't say a word.

It's Cinna who opens his mouth. "So now that you don't have to concentrate on keeping her alive anymore, how about you tell us exactly when you fell in love with her?"

 **Thanks for reading, and as always, reviews are much appreciated!**


	6. This Being In Love Shit

**A/N: Here's another chapter, which I wrote instead of packing for the business trip I'm leaving for in the morning.**

 **Also, I create pinterest boards for my stories as inspiration, and because I felt like procrastinating even more this evening, I created a new pinterest account, just for my fanfic stuff, and moved a few of the boards over. I'll keep adding. If you're interested, the one for Thaw is here: /know6748/thaw/ (I don't know why, but FFN won't allow links, so put pinterest dot com in front of it). Or just try looking for I Know The Pieces Fit 0114.**

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Cato doesn't answer. He just glares at Cinna. _Was I that obvious?_

As if he can read Cato's mind, Cinna speaks again. "Yes. It's obvious. You don't hide it very well."

"So?" Haymitch asks. "You still didn't answer the question."

He scowls. It's not their business. "I'm not gonna fucking talk about this with you."

"Fine," Cinna says. "But you better figure out how to manage yourself around her or it's gonna get real awkward real fast. Because you have an interview to do together and then the closing ball and you have a tour after that. And I'm pretty sure she has no idea about your little..crush. Am I right?"

Cato doesn't say a word. It's confirmation enough for Cinna, who sighs. "Come on. She's gonna be here in like fifteen minutes."

The two of them reach the recovery wing just as she's being escorted in. She's still shivering. The medical team swarms her immediately, and they never get within twenty feet of her. But she meets Cato's eyes briefly and she's in a mild state of shock. It's nothing like the morning she left for the arena; he can tell that she knows where she is and who he is, but she's looking around as though she's not quite sure she's awake.

A doctor approaches him. "Sir," she says. "Are you ready for the surgery?"

"On her shoulder?"

"No. On your hand."

Oh. That's right. His hand. It's broken. He looks down at it. "But…" he turns to where Katniss is disappearing behind a set of double doors, a nurse on either side of her. "Yeah. Sure."

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He's more beat up from mentoring than he was from his own games.

The doctor says he's suffering from exhaustion and malnutrition and mild dehydration because he pretty much stopped sleeping, eating and drinking a couple of days before the start of the games. She says he was operating at such an acute stress level for so long that he's probably taken a couple of years off of his life.

He scoffs at her until he looks in the mirror. His skin has taken on a grayish pallor and he has dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and wrinkles he's never seen before. His lips are flaking. His hair is greasy. He pulls up his shirt and sees that he's not "puffy" anymore.

Now that he thinks about it he has a pounding headache and he feels nauseous and he's never been so tired in his life. But he can't seem to relax either; his nerves are shot and he's jittery.

They put a mask up to his face and tell him to breathe in deep and then everything starts to fade out and he slips into a sleep that is as heavy and dark and deep as the bottom of the sea.

When he wakes sunlight is streaming in on him. They've operated on his hand and it's all wrapped up. His mind is clear and his headache is gone but his muscles are stiff. Cinna comes in and tells him he's been out for over twenty-four hours. He opens his mouth to ask about Katniss, but the stylist shakes his head and puts his finger to his lips.

"You're not supposed to talk unless absolutely necessary for the next week. For your voice. And I know you wanna know how Katniss is doing," Cinna says as an orderly comes in bearing a tray with toast and canned pears and a bowl of some kind of broth. "But you have to eat a few bites first and then I'll tell you."

Cato doesn't feel like eating and he glowers down at the tray, but he picks up the the toast and stuffs it in his mouth. Cinna's about the only person he'll let "handle" him.

"She's fine. Still out. They fixed her shoulder. Tightened the tendons and all that to prevent it from happening again. Fixed her left ear. She should have most of her hearing back. They'll test it once she's awake. They did the usual. Cleaned her up, gave her fluids. Treated her stings and her burn. They'll go in and remove the marks and scars from everything once they're completely healed. Although she might want to keep them. I don't know. I know some of you like to keep your battle scars. Like badges of honor."

"They're all my fault," Cato rasps.

"What's all your fault? And you're not supposed to talk."

But Cato doesn't care. "Her scars and her marks. On her arms from when I cut her. From the surgery on her shoulder. And the burn on her calf. And the tracker jacker stings. All my fault. The only thing I didn't cause was the damage to her ear."

"Well I guess you literally left your mark on her, huh?" Cinna gives him a sad smile.

"She should have them removed." Cato says. "Get rid of them. So she can forget about all of it."

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They tell him she's awake.

His heart pounds so hard and so fast he thinks maybe he's dying. His mouth goes dry.

But he doesn't even know what to say or how to act towards her at this point.

So he doesn't go in to see her.

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"Still cold?" Those are his first words to her since they sent her back up to the twelfth floor. They are the same ones he said to her the morning he injured her shoulder. Except this time he's not smug. He's almost timid.

It's in the 80s outside right now. The sun is streaming in through the window. He's in shorts and a t shirt. But she's in a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants and thick socks. He's not sure but he thinks maybe she's shivering.

"It don't think I'll ever be warm again," she says. He stands and goes to the thermostat and he turns off the air conditioning.

When he turns around she's at the buffet. She pours herself a mug of hot cocoa and she adds a dollop of whipped cream and then a smattering of chocolate sprinkles.

He looks down at the floor and he almost smiles.

"What happened to your hand?" she asks.

"Broke it."

"How? And what's wrong with your voice?"

He's getting uncomfortable. "Punched a wall. Yelled a lot."

Her eyes are full of questions but her mouth stays quiet. He's guessing it's because she isn't sure if she really wants to know the answers.

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They've told her. He's not sure who. Maybe Cinna. Maybe Haymitch. Maybe Effie. Doesn't matter who. Someone fucking told her.

Not that he's in love with her. They know better than to tell her that. But everything else.

About how he overheard her conversation with her mom and Prim and Gale. And how he spied on her shooting but kept her secret. How he lied on purpose to Quintus about Marvel's fighting style. How he went to Tony Waterford and got the money for her bow. How he broke his hand and stabbed himself in the thigh with a pen because he blamed himself for her shoulder getting hurt again in the arena and for her getting burned and then treed. How District 2 and its victors have disowned him but he says he doesn't care and how he punched Alec for that comment about coal dust and taunted Enobaria.

He can tell she knows that night when she patters out into the living room where he's sitting in front of the fire. He hears a rustle off to the side. Kind of like when he loops his tie around itself. He tenses because he knows it's a black silk robe making that sound. She must have warmed up since this morning. He turns his head and there she is. And he can tell by the look on her face that she _knows_.

She looks like she's still wary of having her questions answered, but there's a guilty expression on her face too.

This is about to get really uncomfortable.

"I can't...I don't know how...I can't ever repay you." She's distressed.

"Repay me?"

"For what you've done. Cinna says you can't ever go back to 2."

"I don't want to go back to 2."

"I don't believe that. It's your _home_."

He's not entirely sure he believes it either. But her being alive is more important, and he doesn't regret what he's done.

"I don't even know how to begin to pay back what I owe you!" She's wailing now. She looks like she feels sick. Like she hates this as much as she hates being cold or having some asshole yank her arm out of her socket.

"You don't owe me shit," he says, his voice hoarse but fierce. "That was my choice. Mine. And no one else's."

"But why?"

It's convenient that he's not really supposed to talk. He clamps his mouth shut tight and looks up at the tv and pretends she didn't just ask that question.

"Why?" she asks again. She takes a step toward him.

He shakes his head. He doesn't look at her.

"Why?" She takes another step.

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does!" Another step.

"Why? Why does it matter?"

"Because I can't deal with knowing it's my fault you can't go home."

"It's _not_ your fault. I already told you it was my decision."

"I need to know!"

She's right in front of him now and she's got unshed tears in her gray eyes. And she's in that black silk robe and she smells like an early summer rainstorm and he thinks of that dream where she stood between his legs and he nuzzled into her palm and he's afraid that if he doesn't get out of here right now he'll lose control and throw his arms around her and bury his face in her chest.

"Tell me!" she demands.

He clenches his fists and his jaw and shoots up off of the couch. "It doesn't fucking matter!" he roars into her face, assaulting his vocal chords all over again.

Her eyes go wide and she backs away quickly.

She's afraid of him.

"I'm sorry," she whispers as a single tear escapes and runs down her cheek and onto her neck.

He deflates. All of his aggression is sucked out of him.

And before he can stop himself, or even realize what he's doing for that matter, he's got his good hand on her ribs and his lips on that tear.

She gasps and her legs buckle and her hands automatically shoot up to his chest and he catches her in the crook of his arm before she's even really started to fall.

He closes his eyes and burrows into her neck and breathes her in deep.

She lets out the softest little _Oh_ he's ever heard and that's what snaps him out of it. He freezes for a second and then he pulls back. He looks into her eyes and he doesn't know if it's shock he's seeing in there or fear or elation or desire or all of it wrapped up together. He can't see his own expression , of course, but if his lips on her neck weren't answer enough to her question, he's pretty sure the look on his face is all the explanation she needs.

He pivots them around and he sets her safely on the couch so that her knees won't betray her any further and he takes three steps backwards, his eyes still on hers, and then he turns and strides out of the apartment.

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He's woken that night by the sound of her screaming. He's just opening the door to his room so he can go wake Cinna, but the stylist is already in the hallway.

"I got it," he says to Cato.

Cinna slips into her room, leaving the door slightly cracked, and Cato paces in his boxers, listening as Cinna murmurs to her. Her screams die down until she's crying softly.

He hears Cinna ask her if she wants some water and he's already halfway to the bar before the stylist has risen from the edge of the bed.

He returns to the hallway and hands Cinna the glass and when he looks up he meets her eyes through the open doorway. She looks heartbroken and bewildered.

God how confusing this has to be for her. He treats her with contempt the first day he meets her. The next day he cuts her. Twice (although in all fairness she asked him to do it that second time). He drags her onto the roof and leaves her in the cold and rain overnight. He injures her shoulder. He doesn't speak to her for weeks after that, until after he watches her shoot for the first time, and then he says exactly twenty-four words to her at dinner. They go back to ignoring each other until that night...that night...god he can still feel her touch on his face. The next time he acknowledges her is to yell at her about her scoring session, and he knows she doesn't remember the morning of her games when she left the Training Center for the arena. But the next thing she knows he's sending her a bow and arrows and some burn salve and some self-heating gloves and then she wakes up in recovery and they tell her he's sacrificed pretty much everything for her and when she confronts him about it he yells in her face and then kisses her neck and nuzzles her.

It's fucked up.

He's just gonna stay the hell out of her way, that's what he's gonna do.

He retreats into his room but he can't fall back asleep.

This being in love shit...it sucks a bag of dicks.

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Surprise, surprise, breakfast is awkward, at least at first.

He doesn't speak to her or even look directly at her, but he's hyper-aware of her presence. He hears every little breath she takes. His peripheral vision catches the slightest movement when she shifts in her chair or fidgets.

She pours herself a mug of cocoa, but the dish of whipped cream is on the table between Cinna and Cato, and the stylist is scooping some onto his waffles as he and Effie chatter away about Katniss's "look" for her interview. Cinna sets the spoon back in the dish when he's done and keeps right on talking.

From the corner of his eye, Cato can see Katniss glancing at it longingly, but she doesn't want to ask him for it. She fixes her eyes on Cinna, waiting for a break in the conversation.

 _Oh for god's sake._ Cato nudges the dish across the table until she can reach it and then he reaches behind him to the buffet and picks up the chocolate sprinkles and he pushes those over to her too. He keeps his eyes on his plate the whole time.

"Thanks," she says softly.

He nods without looking up. _You're welcome_. He goes back to shoveling his eggs into his mouth.

"Caesar's gonna ask about that 11 again," Haymitch says with a wry smile.

Effie huffs indignantly and Cato looks up at her.

"You're not gonna say what happened, are you?" Cinna asks.

"I wasn't planning on it, no," Katniss says.

"Good. Because if you do you'll make the gamemakers look stupid and they'll hold it against you," Haymitch says and Cinna nods in agreement.

 _Look stupid_? They all know what she did, Cato realizes. Except him. He looks around the table.

Haymitch notices. "Sweetheart here was, as you know, the last tribute to go that day. The gamemakers weren't paying attention to her and it pissed her off, so she shot an arrow through the apple in their roast pig's mouth and pinned it to the wall."

His jaw literally drops. His eyes dart of their own accord to hers. She drops her gaze to her plate.

"And then-" Haymitch breaks off laughing and it takes a few seconds for him to get himself together. "And then she says 'Thank you for your consideration' and throws the bow on the floor and stalks out."

"She said Plutarch Heavensbee was so startled he fell into the punch bowl," Cinna adds, his eyes twinkling.

"I think it's just awful that you two encourage this type of behavior," Effie scolds. "It was rude. It was _terribly_ rude."

"It was ballsy," Haymitch says. "And it got her an 11."

Cato's still in awe. "Thank you for your consideration," he whispers to himself as he stares at her. And then he can't help it, he drops his face to his hand and laughs silently. So hard that he starts shaking.

Effie lets out another huff. "Not you too!"

"Oh, loosen your corset princess," Haymitch says and they all burst out laughing anew. Except for Effie of course.

When Cato looks up Katniss is looking at him and she's grinning and her eyes are silver and sparkling. Like sunlight on the water in late afternoon.

He feels like a king.

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 **Let me know what you thought of this chapter and what you'd like to see next. I have a couple of ideas, but I'm open.**


	7. Here's To You Buddy

**Thank you so much for the reviews and the feedback and the suggestions! They've been both motivating and helpful as I've been deciding where to take this story. I just got back from a business trip that was pretty hectic so I wasn't able to write at all this weekend, but I got a couple of chapters done last night. Enjoy, and please keep the reviews coming!**

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Her interview dress is surprisingly modest-a deep, rich purple with long sleeves, though it does have a slit up to the thigh to show off her legs. Cinna keeps her hair down and unfussy, almost messy really. It barely grazes her shoulders now. The stylist has his team keep her face and lips almost make-up free so that her eyes get all of the attention. They ring them in smudgy messy black shadow and liner and underneath they glue tiny crystals that almost look like tears from far away. "This way, if you cry, it will just add to the effect," he hears Cinna explain to her.

But she doesn't cry. Not when they replay the footage. Not when they ask about the deaths of Glimmer and Serena from 4. Or Aaron from 3. Or Rue. Or Clove.

She doesn't shed a single tear.

As they stand beside each other backstage, Cinna murmurs in surprise. But Cato understands. She's numb. It feels like an out-of-body experience. Her soul has shut itself down temporarily as a defense mechanism. He tells Cinna this.

"How do you know that?" the stylist asks with something like awe in his voice.

Wait...how _does_ he know that?

And then it hits him. "Because I've been doing it for years," he says, just as much to himself as to Cinna.

xxxxxxxxxx

Her soul still isn't up and running for the ball, but Cato's fairly certain this is a good thing.

Otherwise, he doesn't know how she'd handle the herd of men leering at her and holding her just a little too close as they dance with her.

For the most part, she seems resigned and bored and distant.

There are only a couple of exceptions.

The first is when she dances with the President. Cato has no idea what the man is saying to her, but it's clear he's doing almost all of the talking, and she is terrified, in spite of the saccharine smile on Snow's face. Or maybe because of it. Cato's seized by an almost uncontrollable urge to stalk over and cut in, but it's not an option and he knows it.

He feels completely powerless and all of a sudden it occurs to him that he's never really had power to begin with, even as a Victor. The realization, his second big one of the night, angers him. He downs the rest of his whiskey and turns his back on Katniss and Snow resolutely, determined to douse the rage simmering just under his skin and behind his eyes with more liquor.

He's feeling a little better and he's calmed down quite a bit, until he sees Tony Waterford dancing with her. He's pretending to listen to a conversation between Haymitch and Johanna Mason, but really he's glowering because Tony is making her _laugh_.

The song ends, but Tony waves off another would-be suitor, who can hardly protest. Tony is, after all, her biggest sponsor by far, which entitles him to as many dances with her as he would like, and everyone there knows this. Cato glares as the billionaire snatches two glasses of champagne from a passing server and hands Katniss one. He leans in close to her and says something and she laughs again and his eyes crinkle up and he's looking warmly at her and tapping his glass against hers and then she raises hers to her lips and takes a sip. Delicately. Like a lady. As though she's actually _trying_ to be attractive.

It's working, Cato notes with some bitterness.

He hears the rich middle-aged man with atrocious sideburns who's standing about ten feet from him snort indignantly. "Waterford, that little fuck," the man says to his fellow Capitol pigs. "He's gonna hog her. Use her up til she's looser than Finnick Odair's asshole and then he'll toss her to the rest of us. But she won't be worth anything by then. She'll be all stretched out."

In order to avoid throttling the man to death, Cato immediately walks away, startling both Johanna and Haymitch, neither of whom seem to have heard the comment.

He escapes into the hallway and sits down on the nearest bench because all of his anger has dissipated and left behind a fear that overwhelms him.

He'd forgotten that Snow sometimes pimped out attractive victors to those willing to pay the astronomical fee, probably because he himself hadn't been used as a Capitol whore. He had been confused and, quite frankly, a tad offended when no summons arrived after his Victory tour (he likes to think he's a good-looking guy), but then Brutus pointed out that everyone knew he'd pretty much sleep with anything female anyway, even though he had a taste for the sophisticated ones, and really, who would be stupid enough to pay for the milk when the cow was giving it out for free? Basically, he'd made himself too "widely available" to be considered valuable in that sense. "You flooded the market," Brutus had said. Whatever the hell that meant.

But that same tactic won't work for Katniss, and Cato is panicking. For a moment he actually wishes he'd let her die in that arena, but then he shakes himself out of it. He's got a few months to come up with something; Snow won't come for her until after her tour.

Maybe...maybe...Cato has never _ever_ considered marriage before. But the Capitol would probably drool all over themselves at the idea of some stupid fucking sappy romance between the ruthless victor from 2 and the feisty little tribute from 12 he'd been forced to mentor. And Katniss doesn't seem to hate him anymore and she didn't run off in disgust when he touched her last night and maybe if he explains it to her…

And then Tony Waterford walks out of the ballroom doors and into the hallway.

"Cato!" he calls jovially. "There you are!"

Cato's on his feet in an instant and his fists are clenched. "Is it true what they're saying?" he demands.

Tony's face freezes and he steps back. "Depends. What are they saying?"

"Are you gonna buy her? Are you gonna use her?"

Tony lets out what seems to be a sigh of relief and lifts his hands in a gesture of submission. "Whoa, Cato, calm down and hear me out, alright? Just hear me out."

 _Hear him out?_ That's not the answer Cato was looking for. He was looking for a _no_.

"Yes, I bought her," Tony says.

 _Past tense?!_ Cato's heart twists so violently he can't even react at first and Tony just keeps talking. "I bought her. Already. But I didn't just buy the right to sleep with her. I bought the right to marry her."

"You WHAT?!" He's going to rip Tony Waterford's face off with his bare hands.

"Hey. Slow your roll. It's not at all what you think. It was a non-refundable one-time payment and it entitles me to begin a relationship with her immediately, but it doesn't mean I _have_ to. And of course, since Snow now considers her my property, I am free to do whatever I would like with her, so long as she continues to do the Victor-y things that Victors have to do. _Whatever_ I would like. Including release her at any given point in time."

Cato's right up in Tony's face. "Then you fucking release her."

"I'm planning on it. But not yet."

"Why not?"

"Because she hasn't shown any interest in anyone yet."

Cato's confused. This makes no sense. He backs up. "I don't understand."

Tony shrugs. "Say she wants to marry someone back home. Then I'll release her."

"And in the meantime? What do you plan to do with her?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"So she's ok with this-"

"She doesn't know. And she may never need to. No one else will know in fact. They'll just know she's not on the market. I've asked President Snow not to to say anything about it to anyone. To keep it silent." Tony lets out a bark of a laugh. "He thinks it's about my pride. That I want everyone to think I wooed her fair and square instead of buying her."

Cato is pretty sure he understands now, and a wave of relief washes over him.

"So...wait, how will you know if she's interested in someone else?"

"I have my ways of finding things out. Once I'm sure, I'll go to Snow and release her. Actually, I won't so much release her as gift her to someone else."

"So, you're protecting her?"

"I am."

"Why?"

Tony's face twists in disgust. "Because I can't stomach the thought of someone so wild and independent being caged like that. And she's already caged in so many other ways. This way she gets her choice. She can marry whoever she wants. Or she can choose not to marry anyone. It's up to her."

"And you're not interested in her at all?"

"I didn't say that. If she was interested in me it would be awfully tempting. And then I'd have to tell her what I did. Because something about not telling her the truth and getting into a relationship with her seems shady."

Cato sits back down on the bench and puts his head in his shaking hands.

"But you're in love with her," Tony says, and Cato jerks his head up. "I can tell. A lot of these idiots are stupid enough to think all Victors are loyal to Snow and that you were just following the quell rules. And some people are confused because you seem just as unlikely to display love toward another human being than to willingly choose a tribute from an outlying district over one from your home simply because the President expects you to. But a few of us at the top, we know. You're in love with her. It's the only explanation."

"Does Snow know?"

"I'm sure he does. He hasn't said anything about it, but come on. Be realistic here. He figured the twist would just be for show and that one of the careers would still end up winning. Now enough already, your girl's safe. And I heard people talking about wanting to see you dance with her before I came out to find you, so you'd better get back in there."

"She's not my girl," Cato says, rising to his feet and heading toward the ballroom doors. But just as he reaches for the handle, it occurs to him how exorbitant her price tag must have been, and he turns back to Tony. "How much did you have to pay for her?"

Tony laughs. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that. You can't put a price on freedom. But suffice it to say I've dropped a few places on the list of Panem's wealthiest."

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He really doesn't want anyone speculating about him and Katniss, and from what Tony said, at least some people are foolish enough to believe he took the quell rules seriously.

So he doesn't display any emotion as he takes her right hand in his left and he puts his well-wrapped broken one on her back, and he doesn't make eye contact with her as he twirls her slowly around the floor.

She's quiet too, but she feels tense. He wishes he could say something to make her laugh like Tony did, but he's not funny and he doesn't want other people's stupid prying eyes on the two of them for a moment like that anyway, so he just scowls through the rest of the song and releases her immediately as the last note fades out, turning and striding off in his usual cold manner.

He's almost to the bar when President Snow stops him. "You two make a lovely couple," he purrs.

"We're not a couple," Cato says gruffly.

The President raises his white, bushy brows above his red, rabbity eyes. "No? Hmmm. Interesting. I could have sworn I sensed something between the two of you. After all, you were so very intent on making sure she came out of that arena alive."

"Just following your stipulation, sir," Cato lies. "For the quell."

Snow's smile widens, but his eyes narrow. "Were you?" He lets out a chuckles and pats Cato condescendingly on the shoulder, and then he walks off.

Snow knows he's in love with Katniss. Cato's not sure why, but it terrifies him. And then he realizes that, knowing this, the President sold her to Tony. And, yes, he probably would have done it anyway for the money, but Cato can't help but suspect that he also did it as some sort of revenge. But why? For what reason? It sends shivers down his spine.

He turns to see Katniss accepting Plutarch Heavensbee's invitation to dance, and he wonders, for a second time that evening, if perhaps he should have just let her die.

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When her body falls asleep, her soul reawakens. Loudly.

He's out of bed and into the hallway within seconds when her screams wake him, but Cinna throws open his door just as Cato raises his fist to knock on it.

She was dreaming about Clove. He overhears her telling Cinna when he enters the room with a glass of water.

She looks up at him with wide eyes full of tears. Cato knows what they taste like, those tears, and he imagines their salt on his tongue. But he just hands her the glass.

At the doorway, he turns around to see Cinna tucking her hair behind her ear. "Just lay back down," the stylist coaxes. "Tomorrow you'll be back home in 12 and you'll get to see your mom and Prim and Gale and Madge. Close your eyes and think about that."

Cato returns to his room and lays back down but he can't fall asleep at first.

So he remembers Cinna's words. _Tomorrow she'll be back home in 12 and she'll get to see her mom and Prim and Gale and Madge_. He doesn't know who Madge is and he's not exactly thrilled about Gale, but whatever. If it'll make her happy. He repeats it over and over in his mind. _Tomorrow. Home. Mom. Prim. Gale. Madge. Tomorrow. Home. Mom. Prim. Gale. Madge. Tomorrow. Home. Mom. Prim. Gale. Madge._

The words become a kind of mantra, a chant that loses all meaning, that begins to sound like nothing more than a string of random syllables grouped together.

It quiets his mind and eventually he falls back to sleep.

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She stands across from him on the living room rug early the next morning. She's fidgety. She keeps shifting from one foot to the other and she's tugging at the ends of her hair.

All of her new clothes and the few items she brought with her have been packed and loaded on the train, which is where she'll be heading any second.

"What are you gonna do now?" she asks him.

He snorts. "Sleep. For days on end."

She smiles but it's small and there's nothing of substance behind it. "Well...I guess I'll see you in a few months."

"Yeah. See you."

She starts toward the door but she hesitates and turns back towards him, her eyes on the rug. Then, without warning, she practically flings herself at him, her hands on his shoulders, her toes on their tips, her lips on his cheek. His internal organs tumble over one another. "Thank you," she whispers.

Of its own accord, and entirely without his permission, his left hand fists itself in the cotton covering her lower back and he nods against her. _You're welcome_. But he doesn't say the words. Because if he opens his mouth he's going to vomit all of those organs that are still reeling inside of him right onto her shoulder.

And just like that she slips away like sand through his fingers, and he is left all by himself in that apartment, while the morning sunlight streams in from the east and mocks him.

He steps back and he finds the wall and he slides down it until he's sitting on the floor. He leans his head back and stares up at the ceiling. His throat aches.

 _Today. Home. Mom. Prim. Gale. Madge. Today. Home. Mom. Prim. Gale. Madge. Today. Home. Mom. Prim. Gale. Madge._

He repeats it until his mind goes numb.

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He's already five whiskeys deep as watches her homecoming live on tv that evening.

She stands on the platform, shy from all the attention, and waves to the crowd. The camera pans in on her loved ones, who are standing near the front and off to the side by the steps.

Her mother is crying with joy.

Her sister is cheering wildly from her perch on Gale Hawthorne's shoulders.

When they tell her she can go to her family, she doesn't run to them, but takes her time as she makes her way across the platform and down the steps. She's cautious, as though afraid that if she moves too quickly it will all melt away and she'll find herself back in the arena.

But when she reaches them she almost loses it. Gale has set Prim down and even though she isn't much smaller than Katniss, she leaps into her arms and the two sisters bury their faces in each other's shoulders. Cato can tell by the way they're both shaking that they're crying.

A full minute passes before Katniss lifts her head and sets Prim down, and then, as she wipes away her tears, she turns to her mother, who places a hand on her daughter's cheek and gives her a long, searching look before taking her in her arms. When the camera angle changes to show Katniss's face, it is soft and her eyes are closed. She is sighing and relaxing into her mother's embrace.

And then when she pulls away, she turns to Gale and her face lights up. Her eyes sparkle. The crowd is too noisy for the camera to pick up his words, but Cato can read his lips. _Hey Catnip_. His gaze on her face is tender and they hug one another almost fiercely. Her body, Cato notes, fits against his perfectly.

He reaches for his bottle and generously tops off his sixth whiskey. He raises the glass to the tv screen, to Gale Hawthorne. _Here's to you buddy_.

He knocks it back in one swallow and reaches for the bottle again.


	8. Buried Treasure

He's homeless. Not technically. He has his townhouse in the Capitol, on the street they call Victor's Row. So he has a bed and a place to eat and somewhere to keep all of his shit.

But Cato's learning for the first time that a home is more than a roof over your head and four walls around you and Frette linens on your bed. It's a community. It's a sense of belonging.

And he doesn't have that anymore. As superficial and fucked up as his relationships with them had been, the other victors from 2 and the instructors at the Academy had been the closest thing he'd had to a family.

And he's been lonely for years, but he's just now realizing it for the first time. Now he _knows_ he's lonely. Now it's palpable and it presses down on his chest when he wakes in the morning. It makes his steps heavier, it makes his shoulders droop.

 _Katniss was right_ he thinks bitterly. _Brutus was right_. _I'm going to die alone._

He drinks more now than he ever has. Because there's not much else to do.

He can't train the candidates at the Academy. Technically he has every right to go back to 2 and march in there, but they'd either spit in his face or refuse to acknowledge his existence. Or who knows, maybe they'd douse him in kerosene and light him up like they did his mansion. As a fitting punishment for backing the Girl on Fire.

So he sleeps as late as he can every day, and when he wakes up in the afternoon he eats something and he works out for a couple of hours and he goes for a long run and then he takes a shower and he eats something else and he drinks until he passes out and then he repeats the whole thing over and over again until he can't remember for the life of him what day it is.

And that's all he does.

Other than think about Katniss. He wonders what she does all day and if they got feed for Lady (he still doesn't know who the fuck that is), and if her family is all settled in their new house and if her shoulder ever bothers her and if she still sneaks under the fence to go hunting, even though she doesn't need to. He wonders if she has nightmares every night and if she does, he wonders who comforts her, and he really hopes it isn't Gale Hawthorne. He imagines they probably kissed each other breathless as soon as they were alone together, and he's jealous but it's not a nasty, evil kind of jealous-it's a pure one. He doesn't wish ill on that guy, but _god_ does he wish Katniss would look at him the way she looks at Gale.

He still has nightmares. Sometimes they're the ones where he's trapped in a crimson haze and the air is filled with the sound of children screaming as they bleed out and then he takes to burning himself again when he wakes.

But more often now, his nightmares are concrete. Katniss taking Clove's knife between her shoulder blades as she sprints away from the Cornucopia. Katniss dying in the forest fire, her skin blistering up and turning black as she chokes on smoke, her left arm limp and dangling at her side. Katniss gasping for air as Quintus, who has dragged her down from that tree, wraps his hands around her throat and squeezes, while a combination of her blood and his semen seeps out onto the forest floor from between her thighs. Katniss awakening the tracker jackers too soon and screaming in agony as they swarm her just before she falls to her death eighty feet below. Katniss, writhing in pain as Clove carves up her face as revenge for blowing up the supply pile. Katniss freezing to death, her lips turning as gray as her eyes, her fingers growing stiff.

On those nights, he doesn't reach for his lighter, because he wakes, confused at first, and still in terror, but then he remembers that she is alive and well and at home, where she is surrounded by people who love her.

And he breathes a little easier because it wasn't real.

Sometimes the dream he had the night of Brutus's funeral visits him. The one where he put his arms around her as she stood between his legs.

On those nights he doesn't reach for his lighter either, because he wakes, confused at first, and still in a blissful haze, but then he remembers that she is at home, where she is surrounded by people who love her.

And his heart twists in his chest because it wasn't real.

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A couple of weeks (by his rough, drunken estimation) after she's left the Capitol, Tony Waterford barges into his house.

"Get up," he hears the closest thing he's got to a best friend bark out, and then he's greeted with a kick in the ribs. "Come on. The weather's fantastic. We're going golfing."

"I can't golf," Cato mumbles, his face in his pillow. "My hand's still broken."

"So sit on the cart and drink while _I_ golf," Tony says with another kick. "Come on. You can't just mope around for the next couple of months like some lovesick puppy."

Cato pushes himself up out of the pillow and glares at Tony. "Call me a lovesick puppy again and I'll rip your trachea out."

But Tony just laughs. "Technically I didn't call you one. I likened you to one. And anyway, I just call 'em like I see 'em. Now get up you lazy fuck."

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He gets up. He eats three big bowls of cereal. He showers. He puts on his golf pants and his polo and he blinks when the sunshine hits his eyes, but he goes with Tony and he finds that he's not sorry he did.

The breeze feels nice and the sun feels nice and it smells like early fall even though it's still warm and after Tony's done with all eighteen holes they eat steak and they drink whiskey and they smoke cigars.

They meet some girls there at the clubhouse. One of them is petite and has dark hair. The other is tall and curvy and blond and she's wearing a _very_ short golf skirt and a _very_ tight polo and entirely too much makeup for golf.

She looks nothing like Katniss Everdeen.

She'll do just fine, he decides.

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The next day he walks into Brutus's townhouse, which is three doors down from his.

Tony had told him the night before that he'd heard they're planning to go in early next week and clean it out, so if he wants something to remember Brutus by, he needs to go soon.

He walks up and down the hall and in and out of the rooms, running his hands over the walls and the surfaces of the furniture. He opens closets and drawers and he shuts them again. He doesn't want Brutus's suits or ties or cashmere sweaters. He doesn't want his fine art or his humidor or his silver cigar cutter or his cut crystal decanter and double old-fashioned glasses. He doesn't want anything he realizes. He just wants his mentor back.

He's wandering through the study when he realizes that Brutus's desk is just a little less dusty than the other surfaces. Huh. That seems odd.

He sits down at it and opens the drawer. There's a varnished wood case in front of him, long and shallow and flat. He pulls it out and opens it up to find two trays of colored pencils in every shade imaginable. He looks at it in confusion. He counts the pencils...120 of them. All perfectly sharpened and nestled in brown velvet.

He looks back in the drawer to find a small tin filled with several black drawing pencils and a large leather-bound journal. When he opens it he finds drawing after drawing. Some of them are just patterns, some of them are mandalas, some of them are animals or landscapes, but all of them are incredibly intricate and detailed. It's like nothing Cato's ever seen. Everything is outlined in black and then filled in with color. Like a coloring book. But for grown-ups.

And then he finds a stack of blank sheets tucked in the back, and he realizes that Brutus didn't just color these. He _drew_ them.

He feels like he's found buried treasure. He used to draw when he was little. With crayons. He remembers how proud his mother was of his creations, how she'd frame them and hang them on the walls. But then he got accepted into the Academy and he wasn't allowed to take anything with him, not even his beloved box of crayolas (120 of them, just like Brutus's pencils), which he had painstakingly arranged in rainbow order.

Even if they'd let him bring them, his schedule was rigid and punishing, and every minute was scheduled for him. There was no such thing as free time at the Academy.

And even if they'd let him bring them _and_ he'd had free time, the other boys would have given him a pounding for it if they'd found out. They'd already given him hell for his short reach and for being the runt of his class and for the painfully slow speed with which he'd read. God how he used to dread it when it was his turn to read out loud.

But anyway...all along, Brutus liked to draw too and he'd had no idea.

He goes to open the next drawer, but it's locked. He searches the study for the key, but when he comes up empty-handed, he resorts to breaking the lock with Brutus's letter opener.

The drawer contains only one thing: A beat-up soft-covered book. _World Atlas_ it says across the front _._ It's old, it's got to be from before the Dark Days. He opens it and flips through the worn pages. Maps. Of places he's never seen before, places he's never even heard of. They're marked up with ink. There are circles over some of the cities and regions and states. They are places Brutus wanted to visit, but knew he never would. Places with names Cato can't pronounce.

Uttar Pradesh

Shanghai

 _Cairo_

 _Rio de Janeiro_

 _Reykjavik_

 _Edinburgh_

 _Cannes_

And then he sees it.

Italy

He gasps. It's such a funny shaped place. Like a boot. The kind hookers wear. The kind that go over the knee. With high, pencil-thin heels.

Brutus has a city called _Rome_ circled on it.

Cato pores over the map. He wonders where on there his fancy shoes and his fancy cashmere blanket came from.

He continues to flip through the atlas randomly until he finds a place called the United States of America. This, he knows, is what Panem was called centuries ago. The shape is slightly different. It was bigger back then. The coastlines hadn't been flooded over yet. He looks at the states, at their outlines and their names. He tries to find where 2 is now. Nebraska maybe? South Dakota? He tries to find where 12 is. West Virginia? Pennsylvania?

A tap on the window startles him and he jumps and snaps his head to the side, and then he sighs with relief. It's just a branch, scraping against the pane as a particularly fat squirrel balances on the end of it.

But...he's got a feeling there's a reason Brutus kept this in a locked drawer. Something tells Cato he's not supposed to know about the rest of the world.

He gets up and he finds a trash bag in the kitchen and he slips the atlas into it, along with the leatherbound sketchbook and the black and colored pencils, and he goes home.

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The remaining weeks before the tour pass quickly. After his hand has been wrapped up for six weeks, the doctor re-examines it and says he still needs to be careful with it, but it's in good shape.

"No boxing or anything, mind you," she warns him. "But eating, writing, all that."

"Golf?"

"Yes, golf is fine. Just don't punch anything or slam it down. Basically, control your temper."

He's so excited. He practically runs home and pulls out a piece of paper and opens the box of pencils (which he has painstakingly arranged in rainbow order-he couldn't believe how jumbled Brutus had left them), and he takes out a black one and he copies one of his mentor's drawings.

His hand is weak, so it's shaky and slow-going, but it's not awful.

He does this every day. And his hand gets stronger and stronger. His drawings get better and better. He stops copying Brutus's work and begins to create his own pictures.

He pores over the map of Italy until he memorizes it.

He goes golfing with Tony. Or sometimes they play racquetball. Or pool. Sometimes they just go to the bar.

He finds girls to fuck. Redheads and blonds. They're always tall. They never have gray eyes.

The air grows chilly. The leaves turn gold and orange and scarlet and then they start to fall.

And then it's November 13th. And tomorrow he will board a train that will take him to 12 ( _West Virginia? Pennsylvania?_ ) and they will start Katniss's Victory Tour.


	9. Who You Really Are

**Thank you all for reading and reviewing! And I just got on this morning to post the newest chapter to find such a sweet one from a guest. It made my morning, so thank you!**

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It's snowing when he arrives in 12.

He meets her and Haymitch and Cinna and Effie at the Justice Center.

She's beautiful. She's gained some weight and her cheeks are glowing. Her hair is glossier and has grown a little. Cinna has put her in a cream-colored, cozy-looking sweater dress that comes to mid-thigh and brown boots that come up to her knees. Her legs...oh god her legs.

He looks over to find Cinna monitoring his reaction with a smirk. _Fuck you_ he mouths. But it only makes the stylist smile wider.

This time there's no flinging. No hands on shoulders. No toes on tips. No lips on cheeks.

Just foggy gray eyes and a tentative _Hi_.

His organs still tumble over one another.

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She's going to give her speech and have dinner with the Mayor and then they're going to head to 11.

He doesn't know what she says once she gets on stage, because he's taken aback by the way the crowd looks at him.

He's been here once before. For his own Victory Tour. They clapped because they were supposed to and no one called him names or spit on him, but they stared up at him with disgust as he looked down at them with contempt.

Actually, that pretty much describes his experience in all of the outlying districts.

But now the air between himself and the crowd is decidedly warmer in spite of the fact that the temperature is actually colder here than it was four years ago. They look appreciative. They look like they approve. They look grateful. They look like they might actually like him.

Because they know, he realizes. They're not stupid. They know he didn't do this because the President said so. They know he did it because he loves her.

Dinner is actually kind of enjoyable. He sits with Haymitch and the mayor and he learns that Madge is the mayor's daughter, and Katniss's best friend, other than Gale.

And then it's time to board the train.

Her family and Gale come to see her off.

She hugs her mother and plants a kiss on the top of her sister's head. "See you in a few weeks Little Duck. This time I can actually _promise_ that." Her sister giggles and gives her one final hug.

She punches Gale affectionately on the arm. He pulls her in tight, his arms strong around her, and he kisses her forehead. He locks eyes with Cato above her head, his lips still on her skin, and the two of them stare at one another for a few seconds.

Cato breaks eye contact first. He looks away. Like a beast backing down from the alpha.

He turns away and the last thing he hears before he enters the train is Gale's voice: "Bye Catnip. Love ya."

He takes a hot shower to try to relax but he can't get the image of Gale's steely, possessive eyes out of his head. He can't stop thinking about how Katniss looked in his arms. Like she belonged there.

When he's done, he puts on his sweats and he goes to the last car. The one with the panoramic windows and the wraparound couch. He pulls out his book and his pencils and he picks up a drawing he's only about a quarter of the way done with.

Drawing usually soothes him but it's been half an hour and he's still in an awful mood.

And then he hears her step in the doorway.

He doesn't look up.

He feels the couch dip beside him. It smells like an early summer rainstorm all of a sudden.

"How have you been?" she asks.

"Fine." _Does she actually care? No. She doesn't actually care._

"What are you doing?"

"Drawing." _What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?_

"I didn't know you could draw."

"Yeah." _Why is she doing this? It's not like we're friends. Why can't she just leave me the hell alone?_

"You're really good."

"Thanks." _Seriously. Do I look like I want to talk to right now?_

"And then when you're done you'll color it in like those?"

"Yeah." _Obviously you dumb bitch_.

"How did you learn to do that?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Just did." _None of your fucking business. Jesus._

"Will you let me color one?"

It's too much. It's just too fucking much. He snaps.

"Stop it," he says. "Just stop."

"Stop what?"

"Talking to me. Bothering me. I get that you feel sorry for me and you think you owe me or whatever for what I did for you and so you think you have to sit here with me and talk to me like you like me, but you don't. You're under no obligation."

She doesn't say anything. But he can still feel her eyes on his face, so he turns to look at her. He can't read what he sees there, but he decides there's no way it's anything other than pity. It's infuriating.

"Stop fucking looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like that."

Is she dense? She must be, because she's still looking at him with those big gray eyes.

"Stop!" he yells.

"I-"

He stands and overturns the coffee table and his pencils go flying. "Get the fuck out!" he roars.

He's sorry before the door even finishes closing behind her. Painfully so. But he doesn't know what you do with remorse (other than burn yourself with a lighter, and he can't very well do that here).

He rights the coffee table and he sinks to the floor and he looks at his pencils mournfully. He's broken three of them. Light Yellow Ochre. Nougat. Light Magenta. (He doesn't like Light Magenta anyway. But still).

He picks up his papers and his sketchbook and he stares at the colorful mess around him until his eyes go blurry, and then he shakes himself and he gets to work putting his pencils back in their velvet nest in rainbow order.

When he's done, he looks at the clock to find that it is 10:28pm. He sighs and looks out the windows at the tree-covered hills flying by in the moonlight.

He reaches for a blank piece of paper and he draws a new picture. This one is a forest. A dark, mysterious one with tangled branches and weeping willows and twisted roots and thorny brambles and a few shadowy creatures peering out from behind the leaves.

When he looks up, more than an hour has passed.

He stands and stretches his cramped fingers and his sore neck and he picks up his new picture and he takes the two trays out of their case and he goes to her room, which is dark and silent. He crouches down and slides the drawing and the trays of colored pencils under the door and then he retreats to his own room, hoping she'll understand that this is his way of apologizing.

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She doesn't come to breakfast. He feels like there's a lead ball in the pit of his stomach. She hasn't forgiven him. He goes to the last car and he watches as big fluffy snowflakes dust the tops of the apple trees.

He hears the door open and turns to see her enter the room with a mug of hot cocoa in one hand and his trays and her drawing in the other.

She comes over to him and sets everything except the paper down on the coffee table.

"Here," she says, holding it out to him. She has colored it in with black and dark teals and blues.

He waves it away. "I drew it for you." _To tell you I'm sorry_.

"I know," she says. "And I colored it in for you."

She understands. And she is accepting his apology. She has forgiven him.

He looks up into her eyes and he takes the paper back and looks down at it.

He feels her plop down next to him on the couch.

"It's not pity and it's not obligation," she says.

He shrugs, but he's not ready to let himself hope she might genuinely like him just yet, because it'll suck too much if it turns out that she doesn't. "I don't see what else it could be. You don't know anything about me."

She snorts. It's very unladylike. "And you don't know anything about me either, but look what you did for me anyway."

"I know a hell of a lot more than you think."

"Really?" She looks at him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

"Yeah. I do. Like how you took care of your family after your dad died. And then the way you look at your sister and when you sing...and what you did with that little girl from 11 and with Clove and with me...the night after Brutus's funeral." He feels his face grow warm. "I knew enough that I wanted you to live over everyone else."

When he turns to look at her he still can't figure out what he sees there, but it sure as hell isn't pity.

"And I know next to nothing about you," she says softly. "But I _do_ know that you're not what I assumed you were. So I guess I'm just curious now. About who you really are."

He laughs bitterly. " _I_ don't even know who I really am."

"Well, you've got nothing but time. What else is there to do besides figure it out?"

He looks down at his trays. He opens his case and puts them back in. She tried to keep them grouped by color, but the Prussian Blue and the Bluish Turquoise have been switched around and the Phthalo Blues are in the wrong order.

She's saying something to him but he can't concentrate. He chews on his lip and sits on his hands.

"What?" he asks.

"I said let's start with your favorite color what is it?"

"Umm, gray." _The Prussian Blue is switched around with Bluish Turquoise._

"And your favorite food?"

"Steak." _And the Light Phthalo Blue goes there._

"And your family?"

"What about them?" _Medium Phthalo Blue goes there._

"What do they do?"

He can't anymore. He just can't. His hands fly out from under his thighs and within five seconds he's put everything to rights in his case.

He sighs with relief and turns back to her. "What now?"

She's trying hard not to smile. He can tell. "Does it bother you when things aren't arranged perfectly by color?"

He shrugs. _Yes._ "It's just...you know this way I know right where they are. When I need them. I don't have to go hunting for them."

She's got some kind of devilish look in her eye. "Are your clothes arranged by color?"

He sets his features and scowls down at his pencils as he picks lint off of the velvet lining. "No," he mutters. _Yes_.

He can feel her staring at him. He can sense the laughter building up in her belly.

And then she shoots up off the couch, quick as lightning.

He tears after her and he almost catches her at one point, which makes her squeal (which, in turn, makes his cock twitch), but she's leading with her right side and he _will not_ reach out and grab that left arm.

She rounds the corner into his room and flings his closet open and he stops in the doorway in exasperation just as she bursts into laughter.

"So I group them by color," he defends himself. "I only have three colors besides white anyway."

"Yes, but they're in rainbow order," she says between giggles. "Blue then purple then gray. And they're gradated perfectly."

She turns to his dresser next.

 _Oh no_.

His ties are perfectly rolled up in one of the top drawers. One row of blue. One row of purple. One row of gray. Gradated perfectly.

His boxers are in order by color in a second drawer.

His dress socks are in order in a third.

She's laughing so hard she can't stand upright.

"And what do you do with your clothes?" he shoots at her. "Throw them in a heap on the floor?"

"Oh please. I don't even pay attention to what I wear. I just put on what Cinna tells me to."

Cato glances at her. Today she's wearing yet another cozy-looking dress. This one is a dark red wine color. And her boots are black riding ones. Her legs...oh god. He wonders briefly if this is how Cinna's going to dress her for the entire tour. If so, it's gonna be a long couple of weeks for him and his dick.

She's calmed down now and she reaches over and plucks his cologne from the top of his dresser. She removes the cap from the plain, matte black cylinder and inhales and he braces himself for another round of teasing. But to his surprise, she doesn't say anything. She just closes her eyes briefly (or maybe he's imagining it and it was just a really slow blink) and he swears she sighs just the teeniest bit.

No. No way. It's just wishful thinking.

She recaps it and sets it back down and turns to face him. "Your clothes. Your drawings. You're a detail person. You're a perfectionist.

"So?" He shifts uncomfortably. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. It's just who you really are."

Her eyes are on his face and they're _sparkling_.

Yep. It's going to be a long tour.


	10. Little Tornado

**Lifted a lot of stuff straight from Catching Fire in the first part of this chapter. Some of it word for word. Some of it just slightly adjusted. So yes, you're correct if you think "this looks awfully familiar." (Thanks, Suzanne Collins!)**

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Cinna begs off going to the Justice Center in 11 due to a migraine. "My head is pounding," he says. "I just want to crawl into a dark hole and die."

He really does look like shit.

"Feel better man," Cato says before they leave.

He had assumed the day would be fairly uneventful. Maybe just a few tears from Katniss over Rue. But as he sits at the side of the stage he can feel it. Something's strange, something's weird. There's a restless energy-a dangerous energy-running through the crowd, simmering just beneath the surface. It's palpable. It practically glows red.

For a minute or two he's concerned for Katniss's safety, but when they call her out on stage, it immediately becomes apparent that whatever this is, it isn't aimed at her. They chant her name over and over again. Like a battle cry.

Once they quiet down, she sets her bouquet on the podium and picks up the card that Effie gave her on the car ride there, and she reads her colorless, uninspiring speech, just like she's supposed to. Within a few sentences, the simmering quality in the air settles down. As though the fire under the people of 11's asses has been snuffed out. Their eyes glaze over with boredom and disappointment.

As he looks at one strapping young man in the crowd, Cato swears he can read his expression plain as day. _Really? This is all you've got for us?_

He doesn't understand what's going on and it frightens him.

After Katniss finishes her speech, he heaves a sigh of relief. Now they can go have dinner and get out of here.

The mayor thanks her and hands her a plaque and the now-deflated audience claps politely.

Cato rises to his feet as the mayor offers her his arm and starts to lead her offstage.

But then she stops and turns back around and with two quick steps she's back at the mic. "Wait," she says to the crowd just as they're dispersing. "Please wait."

 _What is she doing?_

"I have something else to say." The crowd quiets itself and grows still again. "I didn't know Thresh." She's looking right at the male tribute's family. "I never even spoke to him. But I respected him. For his power. For his refusal to play the games on anyone's terms but his own. I heard that the careers wanted him to team up with them from the beginning, but he wouldn't do it. I respected him for that."

It's like she's flipped a switch and the power is back on. The fires have been relit under their asses. They're restless again. Dangerous. The air is glowing red.

She turns to Rue's family. "But I feel as if I did know Rue, and she'll always be with me. Everything beautiful brings her to mind. I see her in the yellow flowers that grow in the meadow by my house. I see her in the mockingjays that sing in the trees. But most of all, I see her in my sister, Prim."

Her voice is shaky as she speaks her final words. "Thank you for your children. And thank you all for the gloves."

Cato expects they'll all erupt with cheers and applause, but it's so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

And then, from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, an old man presses the three middle fingers of his left hand to his lips and extends them toward Katniss. And then the man beside him does the same. And the woman behind him. And then two more people. And then handfuls and then waves until the entire crowd has their arms extended toward her.

And as the tears stream down her face, she returns their gesture in kind.

And then she turns and exits the stage in absolute silence.

They're almost inside when she looks up at him. "I forgot my flowers," she says, and turns back toward the front of the stage yet again.

Cato turns with her. "I'll get them for you. You go with-"

But the rest of his words are drowned out by the sound of the gunshot the Peacekeepers put through the head of the old man, the first to give Katniss the traditional salute from 12.

Cato jumps and immediately looks down at his tribute, praying that she saw nothing. Praying that she has no idea what happened. But the look on her face tells him she saw everything.

And then a line of Peacekeepers forms in front of them, their weapons bared.

"We got it," he says, and steps behind Katniss, who is paralyzed with shock. He puts his hands on her shoulders. "We're going." He spins her around, gently but firmly and walks her into the building. She's shaking uncontrollably.

"What the fuck?" he says to everyone and no one in particular when the doors are safely closed behind them.

Seeder, one of 11's former Victors, comes rushing in to join them. "Come on," she says. "Upstairs. Now." She leads them up and up and up, floor after floor, and then down a hall and through a small door and up another long, shallow staircase and through another small door until they're in a tiny old storage room.

"They rioted here when Rue was killed," she says as she shuts the door. "Right after Katniss kissed her and put the flowers in her hands. They had to send in reinforcements from the Capitol to put it down. Dozens of people were killed and even more were flogged or beaten or imprisoned as punishment. What they did just now out there, that was a symbol of defiance."

"No," Katniss whimpers. "It's my fault. It's my fault."

Seeder, who has a warm, motherly aura, turns to her and takes her in her arms. "No honey," she says soothingly. "It's not your fault at all. We've been on the verge of rebellion here for a long time. No one here blames you. They were looking for an excuse. For a reason."

But Katniss is sobbing into Seeder's shoulder. "Hush now sweetie," the older woman murmurs. "It's alright."

As Cato looks at her, the wheels in his head start to turn. Katniss had been terrified when she danced with Snow, who, unbeknownst to her, had sold her off to Tony Waterford. This has to be connected to that. Somehow.

"Katniss," he says softly as her sobs die down. "What did Snow say to you when he danced with you after your games?"

She looks up at him and sniffles. She seems confused and then it's like some kind of light bulb goes off in her head. "That what I did for Rue was sweet. A little too sweet for a Victor. And then I told him I did it because she reminded me of Prim. And he said he was glad I'd volunteered for her. That it would have been a shame if something had happened to her."

"Did he have a _tone_ when he said it?" Seeder asks. "Do you know what I mean by that?"

Katniss nods. "Yes. It was the way he said _a little too sweet._ And that _it would have been a shame if something happened to Prim_."

Cato looks at Seeder. She looks at him. "What do we do?" Cato asks.

"Nothing much you can do," she says. "But I don't know what the climate's like in the other districts. It's probably best to just stick to the speech on the card from now on."

Katniss is tearing up again. "I should have known what he meant!'" she wails. "I'm so fucking stupid!"

"Oh, honey, no you're not," Seeder murmurs and pulls her into her arms again as Cato wonders how the hell they're ever going to get through dinner.

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They shoot her up with morphling.

That's how they get through dinner.

He hates what the drug does to her. It makes her docile. Pliable. Apathetic. The very opposite of who she is.

"Smile," he says through the side of his mouth whenever she's supposed to smile. She smiles.

"Dance with him," he says when the mayor approaches. "And smile the whole time." She dances with the mayor. She smiles the whole time.

"Say thank you and that you've had such a wonderful time here and you appreciate the hospitality," he whispers as they approach her with a wireless mic at the end of the night. "And smile." She takes the mic and she thanks them and says she's had such a wonderful time here and she appreciates the hospitality. She smiles.

He misses her scowl.

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He's not at all surprised when he wakes to the sound of her crying in her sleep, but that doesn't mean he feels equipped to deal with it.

He briefly considers waking Cinna, who is still feeling awful, but decides against it.

So he stands outside of her doorway and he takes a deep breath and he ducks into her room.

She's shaking and sobbing and screaming. He can't see her face. She's asleep on her right side, her back toward him.

"Katniss," he says quietly, leaning over her to shake her left shoulder. But at the last second he remembers it's her bad one. Of course. That's probably why she sleeps on her right side. He hesitates and then moves his hand to the next logical place: the curve of her waist. He squeezes it gently and shakes her just a little, trying desperately to ignore how perfectly it dips down between her ribcage and her hipbones, how good it feels under his palm. "Katniss."

She stills momentarily and sucks in a deep breath and then she rolls onto her back to look up at him. Her hair is in her eyes so he can only see hints of mercury glowing through the strands. Her cheeks are wet. She starts shaking again.

"It's ok," he says. "You're ok. It's just a nightmare."

"No it's not!" she wails. "It actually happened. That man, it's my fault. It's my fault he's dead."

"No it's not," he says, but she's got her hands over her face and she's sobbing. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault." He repeats it over and over again, but he's getting nowhere with her.

God he wishes Cinna were here. Cinna would know what to do. He'd know what to say. He'd push her hair off her forehead.

Cato knows that touch can be comforting. He knows that _Katniss_ finds it comforting. But coming from him? He's different. He doesn't know how she'd feel about him being the one to push her hair out of her face.

But he's all she's got right now.

So he stops thinking and he lets instinct take over and he sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Katniss," he says again, as he pries her hands away. Her face is twisted with misery and it's the sorriest sight he's ever seen. He can't bear it. So with his hands around her wrists he leans down and puts his lips to her forehead.

She lets out another great big sob and he immediately starts to pull away, because obviously he's just made it worse, but when he lets go of her wrists she clutches at his ribs. She arches up off of the bed and buries her face in his neck.

Automatically, he catches her up in his arms and settles her on his lap. He rocks from side to side slowly as she sobs and runs his fingers through her hair.

And that's how they stay, the two of them. For how long Cato has no idea, but as the minutes pass her sobs die down to hiccups and soft whimpers and finally, to one long sigh against his neck. She's still crying. He can feel her tears on his skin but she's quiet and calm. It reminds him of the soft steady rain that comes after one of the mammoth thunderstorms in 2.

He smiles in the dark. She smells like rain. She cries like a storm. Her eyes are the color of the bottom of a cloud. And yet she's the Girl on Fire.

He glances around the room. A boot here. One over there. Her dress is tossed on the back of the chair. There's a sock by the door. Its twin is nowhere to be found. _And what do you do with your clothes? Throw them in a heap on the floor?_ No. She scatters them all over. Like a tornado.

He smiles a little more and closes his eyes and pulls her in tighter.

She curls her fingers around his ribs tightly. "Will you stay with me?" she whispers.

He freezes and opens his eyes again. Is his mind playing tricks on him or did she really just ask that? "Do you want me to?" he asks.

She nods against his neck.

There's no way she can't hear the pounding in his chest. "Umm, yeah, sure. Ok. I...do you want to lay down? How do you want-?"

"Yeah." She pushes up off of him and swipes at her face, which is plastered with wet strands of hair. But she's too impatient. If she'd just slow down.

Little tornado.

"Here. Stop." He pushes her hands away and starts at the top of her forehead and he runs his fingers along her hairline on either side down to her temples, collecting the strands along the way, and then he tucks them behind her ears.

"You're like a tornado," he tells her. "You know that? A little tornado."

She harrumphs and climbs off of his lap and settles under the covers just the way he found her when he first entered. On her right side.

He's not sure what to do. Yes, she asked him to stay with her, but still. It just seems too presumptuous, too forward to climb right under there with her. Especially since she's turned her back on him.

But then she gives him a look over her shoulder. _Well? Are you coming?_

He stands up and walks around to the other side of the bed and he climbs under the covers with her, settling on his back with his right arm under his head and his left hand on his stomach. He glances over at her and she's watching him.

"Do you have nightmares?" she asks.

"Yeah. Sometimes."

"About your games?"

"Yeah."

"How do you deal with them?"

He shakes his head. He's not going to tell her about his lighter. "I don't know. Just do."

She studies his face for a few seconds and then she sighs. "Tell me something."

He doesn't say anything at first because he assumes she's going to follow up her request with a question. But she's silent. "Ok...what do you want me to tell you?" he finally asks.

"Anything. Just talk. So I'll stop thinking about today."

He looks up at the ceiling. "The colored pencils were Brutus's."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He tells her how he found them in Brutus's desk and how he copied his mentor's drawings until one day he started doing his own. He tells her about that last night of Brutus's life. About how depressed he was and about the things he said: that no one wanted him just for himself and he'd never done anything good and he was gonna die alone. About how maybe he drank himself to death on purpose. "I wish I'd stayed longer," Cato says. "Until he passed out."

He feels her hand on his left forearm. Just beneath the crook of his elbow. "It's not your fault," she whispers.

He turns his head to look at her. But she's focused on his arm. On the burn scar beneath her fingers. It's not very old. Maybe a month or so.

He holds his breath. _Shit_.

She opens her mouth to ask a question, no doubt something along the lines of _How did you get this?_

But when her eyes meet his they widen and he realizes his face is an open book. _I did it to myself_. _Please don't ask me about it_.

She closes her mouth and runs her fingers over the scar one more time, and then she settles her hand overtop of it and closes her eyes.

Cato looks back up at the ceiling and lets his mind wander. He should be upset. About Brutus. About the man the Peacekeepers shot today. About Katniss discovering his dirty little secret.

And he is upset.

But for the first time he can remember he's not lonely. She's beside him, breathing steadily, and she understands him. It's comforting. It softens the edges of his melancholy.

The next time he looks over at her she's fast asleep, and in the moonlight he can see the tear stains on one of her cheeks.

He closes his eyes.

He doesn't fall asleep right away, but when he does he dreams of the rain on his face. The gentle kind that comes after a storm.


	11. Tell Me Something

10, thank god, is uneventful. Their cheers for her are genuine. They're nicer to him than they were four years ago. Like they might actually like him. She reads the speech on her card. They clap. She gets her flowers and her plaque. They eat dinner. No one gets shot.

She still has nightmares.

"Stay again?" she asks after he shakes her awake.

He was hoping she'd ask that. "Yeah."

He walks around to the other side of the bed and she watches him.

"Tell me something," she says once he's settled.

"What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about your family. Do you have brothers and sisters?"

"No. Just me and my mom and dad."

"Are you close to them?"

"No, not really."

"When's the last time you saw them?"

"A couple of weeks before the reaping."

"What are they like?"

"My dad's a Peacekeeper. My mom stayed at home."

"Ok but what are they _like_?"

"I don't know my dad well. He's kind of...distant. I probably know Haymitch better to be honest."

"Well what do you talk about when you see him?"

"Training. The Academy. Mentoring. Candidates. The Games. He went to the Academy. Wasn't picked though. Obviously."

"And your mom? What's she like?"

His heart twists. This is starting to veer a little too far toward the personal end of the spectrum for his comfort. "She loves gardenias." Katniss looks confused, so he explains. "They're some kind of exotic flower. I've never actually seen a real one and neither has my mom. At least I don't think she has. But she uses gardenia soap and lotion and perfume."

"What else?"

"She used to frame my drawings and hang them on the walls."

"You used to draw? Before you found Brutus's pencils?" She's smiling.

"Yeah. With crayons. Before I got picked to go to the Academy."

"She loves you."

He nods.

"But you're not close to her?"

He shrugs. "I'm not exactly her little boy anymore, you know? The Academy changes you."

"What's it like?"

Nope. It's officially gone too far. He shakes his head. _I don't want to talk about it._

She nods and closes her eyes. _I understand_.

He looks up at the ceiling.

She settles her hand over his burn scar.

And for the second night in a row, he doesn't feel alone.

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9\. Uneventful.

Her door is open when he walks past it that night.

"Hey," she calls.

He backs up a couple of steps until he's in the doorframe. "Hey."

"I'm probably gonna have nightmares."

She's looking at him expectantly. Her cheeks are pink. He thinks he knows what she's trying to say. But he doesn't want to invite himself into her bed only to find out he was wrong and have her rebuff him. So he just stands there looking at her.

Finally, she gives up with an exasperated sigh. "I was just thinking maybe you could be proactive and just...staywithme." She mumbles that last part so fast he doesn't catch it.

"What?"

She huffs. Her cheeks are red now. "Just stay with me," she snaps. It's not a very polite invitation.

But it's an invitation nonetheless. He'll take it.

"Sure," he says nonchalantly. He's gonna play this cool.

He strips down to his boxers and lays his tie and his pants and button-down neatly across the back of the chair while she studiously looks the other way.

"Tell me something," she says when he's settled.

He really doesn't feel like telling her anything. He's told her something the last two nights. More than he's told anyone else. He's feeling over exposed. So "no" he tells her with a shake of his head. "Why don't you tell me something?"

"Like what?"

"Who's Lady?"

"Lady?"

"Yeah. A dog or a cat or what?"

Katniss smiles. "No, Buttercup is Prim's cat. Lady's our goat. Well, Prim's goat really. She makes cheese with her milk. It's amazing. Mm, that reminds me. Hold on a minute."

She's up and out the door and Cato is confused until she returns a couple of minutes later with a round paper package tied with twine and a knife and two crusty rolls. "Midnight snack," she says and plops down on the bed.

"Really?" he asks, scrunching his nose at her.

"You don't like goat cheese? You gotta try it. It's the best. Prim gave it to me before I left."

"No I like goat cheese. But you're gonna get crumbs in the sheets."

She rolls her eyes and opens the package and she breaks a roll in half. He watches in dismay as crumbs go everywhere. She spreads some cheese on each half and hands one to him.

"Isn't it delicious?"

It is. It's smooth and rich and gamey and it contrasts perfectly with the chewy bread. "Mmm-hmm," he mumbles and stuffs the rest of it in his mouth.

She tears off a piece with her teeth and bits of bread fly all over the place again. He flinches.

"You should try it with fresh basil on top," she says as she rips the the other roll in two.

He gives up on monitoring the crumb situation. It's no use.

He's fallen in love with a little tornado.

xxxxxxxxxx

Just before 3am he wakes to the whimpers that signal the start of her nightmare.

"Katniss," he whispers as he squeezes her waist and shakes her gently.

She opens her eyes. They're dry. She sighs with relief.

He lets go of her waist reluctantly.

She falls back asleep almost immediately.

So does he.

But just after 4am he wakes again to her whimpering.

Twice in one night.

This time when he starts to let go of her waist, she grabs his wrist and holds him in place.

And then she realizes what she's just done. Her face takes on a look of embarrassment and she lets go of him. "Sorry. I just...it helps I think. I don't have nightmares when I hold onto your arm."

He pulls his hand off of her. She closes her eyes at what she thinks is his rejection. But he's not rejecting her. He's got an idea and he hopes she'll go for it.

"Does your shoulder bother you when you lay on your left side?"

She opens her eyes in surprise. "Sometimes."

He sits up. "Switch places. Come over to this side of the bed."

She seems confused, but she complies.

He directs her to lay back down on her right side and when she's settled, he stretches himself out behind her, fitting his body to hers. The backs of her thighs to the front of his. Her bottom to his groin. Her back to his stomach. He slides an arm underneath her and drapes the other over her waist. Her head fits perfectly beneath his chin on the pillow.

She doesn't shy away from him, but she's tense.

"You got crumbs all over this side of the bed," he grumbles. "I can feel them."

She lets out one little giggle and relaxes against him.

He rolls his eyes and sighs. The shit he's willing to put up with for her...

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When he wakes in the morning he finds he's wrapped himself around her. One of his legs is draped over both of hers and his arms are tight around her body.

He lifts his head and looks down at her. Her face is so much softer when she's sleeping. Like a child's almost. Peaceful. Trusting.

And he realizes it consciously for the first time. She trusts him.

His worth as a man has increased exponentially.

He feels like a king.

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8 is uneventful. Well, except that the crowd reminds him of the one in 11. On edge. Restless. Slightly unhinged. But she sticks to the script and so it never boils over.

She's on the far side of the bed when he enters her room that night.

His mouth goes dry.

Still. He doesn't reach for her when he lays down beside her. He just looks at the back of her head.

She turns and glances at him over her shoulder. She looks disappointed. Or at least he'd like to think she does.

She scooches back toward him an inch. Casually. As if she's just resettling.

So he scooches forward a little to test the waters.

She comes back a little more.

He goes forward.

This ridiculous charade continues until finally, they're flush up against one another.

"Tell me something," she says once he's got his arms around her.

"What?"

"Which district is your favorite?"

"I don't know."

"Well which one did you like best when you went on tour?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

He'd been out of it for most of his tour. Numb. Unfeeling. Unseeing. Except whenever they talked about one of the tributes he'd killed. He had tried to block out the voices of the mayors and bureaucrats who talked about the fallen tributes, but their voices were deafening and their words slithered into the wrinkles and crevices of Cato's brain to take up permanent residence there. He had wanted to put his hands over his ears and squeeze his eyes shut. To drop to his knees and hide his face on the floor of the stage. But that would have been unacceptable for any Victor, let alone one from 2. So he'd taken to staring at the horizon, stone-faced and perfectly still, and he'd bitten the inside of his mouth until it bled. But he doesn't tell any of this to Katniss. Instead, he just says, "I wasn't really paying attention."

"Oh." She's silent for a while, and he knows she's waiting for him to expand on that. But it's too far. He won't.

She knows him a little better by now. So when he doesn't say anything, she doesn't push.

"I was just wondering if 7 will be like 12," she says after a couple of minutes of silence.

"What do you mean?"

"Lumber. Trees."

"Oh. Yeah. There were a lot of trees. So you're excited for 7?" _That'll make one of us cuz I'm sure as hell not excited for it._

"Not particularly. Just wondered what it was like. I'm more excited to see the desert. And the ocean."

"I'll teach you to swim if you want."

"I already know how."

He looks down into her hair. "Really? How?"

"My dad taught me. There's this lake that he found in the woods. A small one. It was our place. Just ours. I never told anyone about it."

"Not even your mom and sister?"

"Well, they knew cuz I'd come home clean for once instead of dirty. And we'd bring fish and ducks home for dinner. But no one else knew."

He's quiet for a few seconds as he works up the courage for his next question. "You never told your friend? That guy you go hunting with?"

She shakes her head and he likes that answer even more than he likes the silky slip of her hair against the underside of his jaw as she moves her head back and forth.

But then-

"God I miss him," she cries softly.

He tenses and his stomach drops. "That guy?"

She shakes her head again. "My dad," she whispers. He relaxes. Until he realizes she's crying. He tightens his arms around her but she struggles a little so he lets up. Maybe his instinct to hold her closer was wrong?

But no. She just wants to turn around to face him. She twines her arms around his neck as she cries into it.

He's a little worried about her left shoulder but it doesn't seem to be bothering her. So he slips his arms around her waist and tosses a leg over both of hers and puts his lips to her temple.

"This is so weird," she sniffles against his collarbone after a few minutes.

"What?" He's alarmed. He can't read the meaning behind that statement. Weird like good weird? Or bad weird?

"I just never rely on anyone. I'm always the rock. I'm the one who takes care of people. So this is weird."

"Oh. Do you...not like it?"

"Yes. And no."

 _Yes and no? What the hell does that even mean?_ "Do you want to stop?"

"No." It's emphatic. Slightly panicky even. She tightens her arms reflexively around his neck. "I just...I'm trying to get used to it."

"I'm getting used to it too."

"To having someone take care of you?" She sounds confused.

"No. To taking care of someone. I've never done it before."

"Do you want to stop?"

 _Hell no_. "No." It's fierce. A growl almost. And he pulls her in closer.

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7 is uneventful but it sucks.

He killed a little boy from 7 during his games four years ago. Ran him through with his sword. During the bloodbath. Right through his liver. Naveen Schumacher. Thirteen. Black hair. Brown eyes. Skin the color of cinnamon. Parents: Kristoff and Navya Schumacher. Middle child. Older sister Rania. Younger brother Pranav. Dad was a shoemaker (literally). Mom was a seamstress.

It is the kill he regrets the most. On the nights he hears the screams of Naveen Schumacher, he holds his lighter to his skin for longer than usual. It takes an immense amount of physical pain to distract him from the memory of the sound of Naveen's voice as he cried out for his mother.

But that night Cato doesn't reach for his lighter.

Because Naveen's cries are cut off by a woman singing. Something about meadows and pillows and willows. And her voice sounds like silk. It wraps itself around him. And it doesn't smell like iron anymore. Just fresh rain-washed earth.

When he opens his eyes to find himself looking right into Katniss's, she stops immediately. He's on his back and she's lying half on top of him, her chin on his chest.

"Why did you stop?" he whispers.

"Because you woke up. You were having a nightmare."

"I know. I was there."

"What was it about?"

He shakes his head. _I don't want to talk about it_.

She nods. _I understand._

"I didn't think I yelled when I had them," he says.

"You don't. But you roll around a lot. And I thought you knew that." Her eyes crinkle and she gives him a smile. "I thought you were there." She's mocking him. Repeating his words. Using her dumb guy voice.

"Shut up," he mutters, and tugs gently on a strand of her hair. "I don't sound like that."

"Yes you do." She rolls off of him and onto her side.

He assumes their spooning position. But he can't go back to sleep. He wants his lighter. The pressure is building inside of him and there's nothing he can do to release it.

She rolls over again to face him. "It really upset you. I can tell. What was it about?"

He shakes his head. _I don't want to talk about it_.

"Cato." Her voice is as tender as her hand against his cheek. _Oh god_. He's helpless when she touches him like that. He's mush. And she's saying his name. He's never heard her say it before.

She's looking into his eyes with such empathy that he realizes that she already knows it was about his games. Of course she does. Why wouldn't she? Her own nightmares are about her games.

"Tell me." It's a demand. A soft one. But still a demand.

And why not? Why not tell her? He can't think of a single good reason.

"I remember every tribute I killed," he says. "All eight of them."

Her eye widen.

He lists them off, not in the order in which he killed them, but by district, from 12 to 1. "Peeta Mellark. Vera Dunbar. Lucille Pasquale. Naveen Schumacher. Lorne Mulholland. Aggie Fisher. Roald Fernback. Oro Rodriguez."

The pressure lets up a little with each name he speaks. Steadily.

"I remember their faces. In detail. I know their ages and the names of their siblings and their birth order. The names and jobs of their parents. How I killed them. The sounds they made when they died. Naveen from 7...he cried for his mother."

"Were you dreaming about him just now?"

He nods. The pressure is gone but something just as painful has rushed into its place. His throat is tightening. He bites the inside of his mouth hard enough to draw blood. He can't stand the thought of crying in front of her. What kind of man will he be then? He's from 2. Men from 2 don't fucking cry.

And then she leans up and kisses him, soft and slow, just above his eyebrow.

He can't anymore. The tears are welling up behind his eyelids. He pushes her away from him. Abruptly. Firmly. He rolls away from her just before a handful of tears make their escape.

He hears her shifting behind him. "I'm sorry," she says.

He hastily wipes the wetness from his lashes. "I'm not mad."

"Then what is it? Why did you push me away?"

He doesn't say anything for a little bit. His throat is too tight. "What you said last night," he says after it finally relaxes. "I'm not used to people…"

"...taking care of you?" she finishes.

"Yeah."

"Want me to stop?"

"Yes."

"Ok."

"And no."

"Ok." And then he feels her against his back. She slips an arm around his waist and spoons him.

"Your shoulder," he protests, glancing over his own just in time to see her roll her eyes.

"I'm a big girl," she says. "I can take care of myself. I'll roll over if it starts to hurt."

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6\. Uneventful.

But something's been bothering him ever since he listed off the names of his kills to her last night. He's remembering the way she steamed at him and Effie that first morning at the breakfast table. When Effie couldn't remember Peeta Mellark's name, and Cato pretended he couldn't either. He doesn't want to know but he has to. Peeta Mellark was the same age as her. He has to know if she knew him. Did they ever speak to one another? Were they friends?

"Tell me something."

"Like what?" she asks.

 _Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't-_ "Did you know Peeta Mellark?"

"Not really."

He's halfway through his mental sigh of relief when she speaks again. "But he saved my life."

" _What?_ "

"Yeah. A few months after my dad died. I couldn't find any food and we were practically starving. We had no money, I had nothing left to sell. Or nothing that anyone wanted anyway. My mom was just this shell of a person, sitting there all day in the house. Not moving or saying anything. And I was making this last-ditch effort to find us something but I was so weak. I'd had almost nothing to eat for a week."

He knows the words before she even speaks them. _A third of a rotten squash and a handful of dried mint leaves_. "Just a third of a rotten squash and a handful of dried mint leaves. I could barely keep upright my legs were so weak. And I'm digging in the trash out back of his parents' bakery and his mom comes to the doorway and screams at me to go away or she'll call the Peacekeepers. And I gave up. I just gave up. I curled up under this raggedy tree in the rain and gave up. I was like, I'm just gonna lay here and die. Because I couldn't go home and face Prim like that. With no food."

"But Peeta had been watching from behind his mom when she yelled at me. I saw him. I'd never spoken to him, but I knew who he was from school. And after I'd been under that tree for like a minute I hear his mom yelling again, but this time it's at him and there's a sound like she's hitting him and then he comes outside with two loaves of bread and they're black-like they're burnt. I could hear her yelling at him to throw them into the trough for the pigs. So he starts ripping off chunks and tossing them in there. He never even looks at me but he's got a red mark on his cheek, and then she must have gone to the front where she couldn't see him, because he glances back inside and then all of sudden, still without looking, he tosses the loaves in my direction and goes back in."

"And the loaves were perfectly good. Just burnt on the outside. God they were so good. They had nuts and raisins in them." She sighs as though she remembers exactly how they tasted. She probably does. "I took them home to mom and Prim and we ate so well that night. At least...compared to how we _had_ been eating."

"And I think he did it on purpose. Burned the bread, I mean. So he could give it to me The next day at school his face was all bruised and swollen. We still didn't speak or anything. But we accidentally met eyes at the end of the day as Prim and I were leaving. And I was embarrassed he'd caught me looking at him, so I looked down. Right at a dandelion. And I was like, duh, dad taught me you could eat dandelions. And then I started to think about all the other stuff he'd taught me. About hunting and gathering and fishing. And that was when I knew how I'd feed us."

"I never spoke to him. Not once. But I'm convinced he saved my life and mom's and Prim's that day."

Cato's convinced he did too. And he feels sick. He killed Peeta Mellark. He killed the boy who saved Katniss's life.

"I hated you after you killed him. So much. I stood in the square in front of the Justice Center and I dreamed about shooting you right through the eye with an arrow. You killed the boy who saved my life. And my family's."

He hates himself. Almost as much as he hated himself for injuring her shoulder. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. To keep from vomiting. To keep from crying out. He feels her roll over in his arms. _No no no_. He doesn't want to look at her. He doesn't want her to look at him.

"But if you think about it," she says, "if you hadn't won who would have been my mentor? It wouldn't have been Peeta, even if he'd won. Who would I have got stuck with? One of the other victors from 2. I would have died probably."

He bites down hard again on the inside of his mouth. He reopens the wound from yesterday and his mouth is filled with the taste of blood.

"Cato." Her hand is on his cheek. "Look at me." _Hmm-mmm. Nope. No fucking way_. "Cato. What were you supposed to do in there? Roll over and die? _Not_ try to survive? I'd be a hypocrite if I stayed mad at you for doing that. I _am_ a hypocrite because I _was_ mad at you. And look what I did. Look how…" Her voice is starting to shake. "Look how awful the girls' from 1 and 4's deaths were. Look how they suffered because of me. And Clove," she wails. "I shot her in cold blood."

He opens his eyes. She's crying. She hates herself right now. She is filled with guilt and self-loathing. And he doesn't say a word to try to comfort her. Because he understands. Because he knows it won't do an ounce of good, just as the words she's just spoken to him didn't do an ounce of good.

Instead, he tightens his arms around her at the exact same time she throws hers around him and each buries their face in the other's neck.

She cries.

But somehow he manages not to.

He thinks it's because even though he's filled with so many awful things-guilt and anger and self-hatred and grief-he isn't lonely. He is understood. He is known. He is trusted. He is valued. And he carries the hope deep down inside that maybe someday he will be loved.

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5\. Uneventful.

He's spent. The past two nights have done him in, and he's terrified to lay down with her.

But he's even more terrified to lay down by himself. Now that he knows what it's like to sleep wrapped around her body, he doesn't know how he'll handle it when the tour is finished. When will he see her next? Not for months. Not until the next reaping, when she'll come to the Capitol to mentor the female tribute from 12. And who says she'll even want to see him anymore by that time? What if this is it for him? What if these couple of weeks are the closest he'll ever be to her? What if she goes home and marries Gale Hawthorne?

Maybe he can say something to her to make her...to make her what? He doesn't even know how to articulate what he wants from her, which is to find some warm dark place far away from everyone else and curl up with her until the cells of their bodies fuse together and it's impossible to separate one from the other. He can't say that to her. It's fucking creepy.

So he decides not to say anything. And that night, as he drapes his shirt and tie and pants across the back of the chair, he prays she won't say a word, as much as he loves the sound of her voice. He's afraid that if tonight is anything like the previous two, he'll simply crack and shatter into a thousand pieces.

"I didn't like it here," she says once he's got his arms around her. _Shit._ "It's too dry and hot and dusty. It feels barren."

"Mmm," is his only reply.

"4 is what I'm excited to see. That's where I want to visit more than anywhere else."

"Mmmm."

"Tell me something."

He sighs. "What?"

"I know you say you don't really pay attention...but if you _had_ to choose another district to live in, which one would you pick?"

 _12._ There's no question in his mind about that. 12. Without a doubt. But that's not what he says.

"Italy."

"Huh?"

"I'd go to Italy," he says against her hair. "It's another country. Across the ocean."

"Have you _been_ there?"

"No."

"Then how do you know about it?"

"It's where my shoes come from and my sheets and blankets."

"Your dress shoes?"

"Yeah."

"What's it like?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know you want to go there?"

"Because it's not Panem."

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4\. A little more eventful. Just a little.

First off, the crowd is edgy, just like in 11 and 8.

And then she sees the female tribute's loved ones, and he realizes consciously that this is the first district where she's forced to face the family of one of her kills. She looks like she wants to put her hands over her ears and squeeze her eyes shut. Like she wants to sink to her knees and push her face into the floor of the stage. But only for a second. And then she shifts her gaze from them and stares at the horizon. She clenches her fists so tightly that her knuckles turn white, and afterward, when they're inside the privacy of the Justice Center and he pries her fingers back, he sees blood beneath her nails and four crescent-shaped wounds in each palm.

"Come on," he whispers. "Let's get through dinner and then I'll take you to the beach."

Her spirit grows a little lighter as she looks at the seemingly infinite expanse of the sea and inhales the salty air. She marvels at the feel of the sand beneath her feet and at how warm it is compared to 12 this time of year. She stands ankle-deep in the foam as the sun sets in front of her.

Finnick Odair has offered to go with them. He's brought along Annie Cresta. Cato doesn't really know Annie at all. She's the only living victor in Panem who isn't forced to return to the Capitol every year to participate in the festivities surrounding the games because she went mad after she won her own. She's a liability. She can't be controlled like the rest of them.

And yet Snow hasn't killed her off. Cato can't figure it out. Sure, he can't just brutally off her. But he could make sure she dies in some kind of "accident." Cato's heard the whispers. He knows Snow has used this tactic before to deal with people he deems politically dangerous.

Finnick was Annie's mentor, and as Cato watches the two of them interact, he realizes that he isn't the first victor to fall in love with his tribute.

He's never really liked Odair-too much of a pretty boy in his opinion. But now he's curious. Maybe Finnick could give him some advice on how to approach Katniss about what he wants. But he doesn't know how to ask.

And then Finnick pulls him aside as Annie takes Katniss's hand and guides her in for a swim. "Walk with me."

Cato glances over his shoulder at Katniss. "But-" She knows how to swim, but in a lake. The ocean is different. The waves are stronger, the current can be treacherous.

"Come on man, she's with Annie."

Finnick's right. Annie won her games without lifting a single finger toward any of the other twenty-three. She was simply a phenomenal swimmer, and therefore, the only one to survive when the gamemakers flooded the arena. Katniss is in good hands. He can already hear her squealing and giggling.

"Have you thought about marrying her?" Finnick asks.

 _What the fuck?! That came out of nowhere_! "Huh?"

"Snow's gonna sell her Cato. After the tour. I heard people talking about her already. Bunch of fucking old Capitol perverts. About how they were gonna put in their names to get on the list. And she's got family she loves. He'll threaten their safety, that's how he'll get her to do it. She'll have to say yes."

It hits him then. Why Annie's not dead. So Snow can hold her over Finnick's head. So he can control him. His blood goes cold in his veins.

"Look, I know you love her man," Finnick is saying. "I can see it. If you marry her all the women in the Capitol will swoon about how romantic it is. Snow won't be able to sell her after that. You two will be Panem's golden couple."

Cato's not sure if it's a good idea to share this, but for some reason he gets the overwhelming feeling he can trust Finnick. "Waterford already bought exclusive rights to her."

" _What?"_ Finnick narrows his eyes. He looks taken aback at first. And then his face changes. He looks like he's thinking. Hard. "Why would Waterford…"

"She doesn't know about it. He told me he's not planning to actually do anything about it. Other than release her if she wants to marry someone else. He says he doesn't want to see her caged."

"Ohhhh." Finnick looks like he gets it. But there's a sly look on his face. Like there's something more to it. Something he gets that Cato doesn't. It's irritating. "So why doesn't he just release her to you?"

Cato scowls.

"You obviously love her," Finnick persists. "I don't get-"

"She doesn't feel the same way," Cato snaps. "Mind your own fucking business."

"Have you asked her about that?" Finnick asks, heedless of Cato's warning.

"Fuck no. I don't need to. She doesn't feel the same way."

Finnick laughs. Cato thinks about punching him in the mouth.

"Yes she does. Are you fucking blind? Do you not see how she looks at you? How she looks around for you when you aren't right beside her? She practically panics. She can't relax until she knows where you are."

There it is again. The dry mouth. The pounding heart. The tumbling organs. "She does that?"

"Yeah."

Cato thinks about picking Finnick Odair up in a bear hug.

And then Finnick speaks again. "God you really are dense, aren't you? I thought it was just an act."

Cato punches him on the shoulder. But it's not hard. He's too elated to be angry about anything. "Shut the fuck up pretty boy," he says. But he's grinning.

xxxxxxxxxx

He's gonna tell her, he decides, late that night as he brushes his teeth.

He runs through the order of it over and over again in his mind. First he's gonna ask her how she feels about Gale Hawthorne. And if she says they're just friends, he's gonna ask her if he can come visit her in 12 and if she'll come stay with him sometimes in the Capitol, other than when she has to be there for the games. He'll ask her if she wants to just not get her own townhouse in Victor's Row and share his instead. If she says yes to all of this then he will tell her he loves her. And he's not looking forward to it, but he'll tell her about Tony Waterford and how and why he bought her, because he's starting to feel guilty about keeping it a secret from her.

He does this for so long that his gums are sore from being brushed too much. He spits and rinses and looks at himself in the mirror.

He's so nervous he's shaking.

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and makes his way down the hall and he sucks in a deep breath and opens her door.

And she's asleep.

He doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved. He thinks maybe both.

Well, she did have a long day. First off, it was pretty emotionally exhausting. And then she swam for a long time-almost until midnight-so that had to have tired her out. The moon had risen full and silver in the sky, illuminating the surface of the water, and she had floated on her back as she looked up at it.

By that time, he and Finnick had joined her and Annie in the water and Cato was worried she would float away because she wasn't paying attention.

"So you pay attention for me," she had said when he scolded her. "Or just hold onto me and we can float away until we find Italy."

Well that had shut him up. It had knocked the wind out of him.

He laid out on his back and he reached over and found her hand and they floated beside each other in silence until it was time to go back to the train.

Now, as he stands in the doorway of the room he sees that she has tossed her little red sundress, which is soaking wet from her ocean adventures, onto the carpet.

He sighs. Doesn't she know about mold and mildew and mustiness? He picks the dress up and takes it and throws it across the towel rack in her bathroom, which is available because the towel she used after her shower this morning is in a ball in the corner behind the door.

 _Little Tornado_.

He goes back out to the bed and he slips in behind her. He takes her into his arms, and she sighs and snuggles into him automatically. Her hair is all tangled and wavy and her skin smells salty. It takes all of his self-control not to suck on a patch of it to see if it tastes salty too.

In the end, he gives in, just a little, and presses his mouth to the top of her shoulder, and then he runs his tongue along his lips. _Mmm. Salt._

He doesn't think she'd mind too much.

After all, she wanted to float off to Italy with him.

xxxxxxxxxx

3\. Crowd similar to 11, 8 and 4. What is going _on_?

They've just settled into bed for the night, but Cato can't relax. He's tense. He's working up the courage to say what he'd meant to the night before when all of a sudden she opens her mouth: "This is where Tony's from."

Cato's eyes, which had been closed in concentration, fly open. There's an icky taste in his mouth. He doesn't like how she calls Waterford by his first name. As if she's familiar with him.

"You're friends with him, aren't you?" she asks.

"I know him," he says flatly. "I wouldn't say we're friends."

"Well, at the closing ball for the games he told me he's lived his whole life in the Capitol. But his dad was born here. He was some kind of technological genius and that's how he got rich and moved to the Capitol even though his labs and factories are still all in 3. And Beetee Latier says his corporation-well, Tony's corporation now-is the main supplier of the computer hardware and the programs and software in the Capitol and a lot of the stuff in the wealthier districts too."

"I know all this already," Cato says with irritation. _She asked Beetee about him? She's asking around about him?_

"And Beetee says Tony's a genius too, like his dad, but with business instead of technology. And that he started making decisions for the company when he was only sixteen. Isn't that amazing?"

It's too much. "He makes weapons too," Cato snaps. "You know that? Weapons the Peacekeepers use. Like the gun they shot that old man with in 11. And his company does the programming for the arenas. Like the fireballs. His company did that."

"...oh." She looks crestfallen.

"Yeah." And he pushes her out from his arms and gets up and he stalks out and down the hall to his room and he slams the door and locks it.

He's fuming.

He feels so stupid. He obviously read way too much into that comment about floating away to Italy.

And Finnick Odair that fucking idiot. Talking about how she supposedly can't relax when he's not around.

Of course she doesn't love him. Why would she? Look at all the hell she went through in the arena because of him. Look at all of the horrible shit he's done. He's a monster. No decent woman, let alone Katniss fucking Everdeen, would ever love him. He doesn't deserve it.

So let Tony Waterford win her over. Let him marry her. He'll just crawl back to his townhouse and go back to burning himself and drinking and fucking random girls until he ends up like Brutus.

He hears a soft tap on his door. "Cato?" she calls. "What's wrong? Are you worried about tomorrow? About being in 2 again?"

He doesn't answer.

"Cato?" She jiggles the door knob. "Cato, please let me in."

He still doesn't answer.

"Cato!" She strikes the door harder now. She sounds angry. "Cato, let me in!"

She's pounding on it now with both fists. She's calling his name over and over again. She's going to cause a scene if she hasn't already. Now she's jiggling the handle as she slams her body against it.

His anger is boiling over.

He yanks the door open so abruptly that she almost pitches forward into the room.

He catches her by her upper arms. "Leave me the fuck alone," he bites out. "I don't wanna see your fucking face or hear your fucking voice. Now _get. The fuck. Out_." He ignores the pained look in her big silver eyes and he shoves her out into the hallway and slams the door again.

He lays in bed and seethes.

He expects her to knock again and try to coax him back into her bed.

But she doesn't.

She just leaves him the fuck alone.


	12. Misplaced Anger

He's almost asleep when he hears the whimpers. He turns and looks at the clock. 2:44am.

He tries to ignore the pitiful sounds coming from her room but he can't.

He's up and out the door before he can stop himself.

"I got it," he barks at Cinna, who is just emerging from his room.

He opens her door and the sight that greets him breaks his heart. She's curled up in his shirt in a ball at the far edge of the bed and she's shaking.

 _His shirt._ The button-down he left on the back of the chair.

Well now he just feels like a pile of shit.

He slides under the blankets and wraps his arms around her. "Katniss," he whispers. "It's ok. You're just having a nightmare. It's ok. I'm here."

She stills and takes in a breath, and he can tell she's coming to, she's taking in her surroundings and trying to remember where she is.

"It's ok," he whispers again. "I'm here. It's just a bad dream."

She turns her head and looks back at him and her eyes are full of reproach and misery. She whips her head to the front again.

He is not forgiven.

"Why?" Her voice is flat.

"It wasn't you," he says. "It's my own shit. I'm fucked up in the head."

"Really? You don't say." Sarcasm. He hasn't heard that from her for a while.

He closes his eyes. "I deserve that."

He feels her deflate in his arms. He runs a hand up and down her left side for a few minutes. She doesn't push him off.

"Was it because of tomorrow? Because you're worried about being back in 2?" Her voice is gentler now. Softer.

He's forgiven.

"Yes," he lies.

"Do you want me to take off your shirt?"

 _What?!_ "Huh?"

"Does it bother you that I'm wearing it?" She sounds embarrassed.

"No." _I fucking love it_. "Why _are_ you wearing it?"

She squirms a little in his arms. She's uncomfortable. Sheepish. But the movement is causing her ass to rub up against his crotch and he's starting to get hard.

"I...got used to...the way you smell," she says. "And I was having trouble falling asleep after you left. Because...you weren't here. So this was like...you know...the next best thing."

 _Oh god_. This is just making it worse. _Cold showers. Cold showers. Coldshowerscoldshowerscoldshowers._

"What are you gonna do after the tour's over then?" he asks her, trying to back his pelvis away from her ass slowly enough that she won't notice.

"I don't know. Maybe it will be better. I'll be at home. I'll have Mom and Prim."

He holds his breath and waits for her to say _And Gale_. But she doesn't.

So he says it for her.

"And that guy. Gale. You'll have him too." This is a topic that's sure to make his erection go away. Yep. There it is. Softening already.

She scoffs. But it's a sad sound. "Shit's not the same with him and me anymore."

"Oh." _What do you mean by that? What's not the same? What was it like before?_

"He doesn't understand. He wants me to go back to who I was before the games. To pretend none of it ever happened. He hates when I'm sad."

"Isn't that a good thing? Should he be happy when you're sad?"

"No," she sighs. "But it's like he resents that I'm sad and that I feel guilty. He doesn't have any patience for it. He tells me I should be ecstatic and grateful. He just...he doesn't understand."

"Oh. So you guys were like...a thing?"

"A thing?"

"Yeah. Together."

"Ohhh. No. But I think he wants to be."

He stiffens. "What makes you say that?"

"He kissed me the morning before my speech in 12. Right before you and Effie and Cinna got there."

"Oh." _Was that the first time? Did you like it? Do you want him to kiss you again?_

But the questions circling through his brain go unanswered.

"Did you mean what you said?" Her voice is flat again.

"About what?"

"About not wanting to see my face and…" He thinks her voice is starting to shake.

"No. I just said it. I told you. It's _my_ shit. My own shit."

She's quiet for a while. And then he feels her fingers running back and forth across his burn scar. "Cato?"

"Mmmm?"

"I'm nervous about tomorrow."

"Don't be. It'll be fine."

"But you're worried about it too. Let's just go. Let's escape and go to Italy."

He smiles into her hair. "And how are we gonna do that, huh? Hijack a hovercraft? Then what?"

"Would you if you could?"

"Escape to Italy? Yeah."

"But would you take me with you?"

"Sure." _Wouldn't go without you_.

She sighs. "I can't go. I have Prim. And my mom. You'll just have to go without me."

He doesn't reply to that. He just lays there, reveling in the feel of her fingers caressing his scar until the movement slows and becomes irregular and finally, stops altogether. She's asleep again.

xxxxxxxxxx

When he wakes in the morning she's asleep on her back and the room is filled with sunlight.

He lifts up off of her and looks down and the sight of her in his shirt immediately makes him hard.

He slips out of bed and back to his room and he turns on the shower.

Under the stream of hot water, he takes himself in his hand and he pictures her in his shirt, but it's unbuttoned. She's in his bed in his townhouse. She's moaning his name underneath him as he thrusts in and out of her and she's hot and wet and tight and-

 _Aaaaahhh._

He drops his head to his chest and watches as the water washes his semen down the drain.

xxxxxxxxxx

2 is awful. Everything about it is awful.

When he and Effie and Cinna walk on stage he's read for boos and hisses. He's ready for them to throw things at him. He's ready to be chased offstage. He's ready to be attacked.

He is not ready for the entire crowd to turn their backs on him and then stand there, absolutely silent. Even the Victors from 2, who are lined up on the other side of the stage, turn their chairs around and face away from him.

Whatever. He doesn't give a fuck anyway. He plops down in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

Effie looks at him in panic, but he just shrugs and points to her chair. _Sit down. Don't say a word_.

She does and Cinna, after raising his eyebrows, follows suit.

The mayor seems gleeful about this. He's the only person in that entire square who hasn't turned his back on them. He's the only one who will acknowledge their presence.

He calls Katniss out on stage and Cato figures they'll at least turn around and glare at her as they clap.

But when she walks onstage, they don't turn around. And you could hear a pin drop. That's how quiet they are.

Cato's a little worried. This kind of defiance got that man shot in 11. But as he looks at the Peacekeepers, he notices that almost all of them have also turned their backs. The handful who haven't are looking around nervously, clearly at a loss as to what to do. They can't very well just start firing at random into the crowd.

It makes complete sense now that Cato thinks about it. 2 produces the highest percentage of Peacekeepers by far. Something like 65%, give or take. Another 30% or so come from 1 and the last few percentage points are made up of citizens of the outlying districts. Of course the Peacekeepers here are pissed at him.

He eyes the retinue that has accompanied them from the train. But they seem as unnerved as he does. They stand there in a line, exchanging worried glances with one another.

Katniss is looking at him, her eyes wide. _What do I do?_

He glares at her. _What do you mean what do you do?_ He jerks his head toward the podium. _Carry on. Like nothing's wrong_. _It's not that hard to figure out._

And she does. The mayor gives his speech. She gives hers. And the entire time, no one moves. They don't clap. They don't cheer. They never turn around.

They go into dinner.

The scraping of the chairs across the floor as everyone at the tables turns around to face the back wall is deliberate and exaggerated.

Only the mayor faces them.

And yet the servers come out and place a plate of crab cakes at every single place.

No one turns around to eat them.

Except the mayor, who gives them a saccharine smile and picks up his fork and tucks into his plate.

It's surreal.

Katniss picks up her fork and looks at Cato questioningly.

He glares and shakes his head at her. _Don't eat that_. He's worried it'll make her sick. _Are you stupid?_ he mouths to her.

Her eyes harden and she looks away from him. She turns her fork over and sets it at four o'clock on the plate to signal that she's ready for the dish to be removed.

Effie nods at her table manners approvingly.

Cato rolls his eyes.

The servers reappear a few minutes later, once the mayor has finished his crab cakes, and remove all of the plates.

"Thank you," Katniss whispers. It sounds painfully loud. Her eyes dart to his.

 _Shut up_ he mouths at her. He rolls his eyes. _God she's so fucking stupid sometimes._

She looks down at her lap.

The servers reappear with Caesar salads.

Again, the mayor picks up his fork and knife and eats every last bite.

Again, no one else turns around to eat their salad.

And again, Katniss, Cinna, Effie and Cato put their forks at four o'clock.

It happens again with the surf and turf.

And again with the creme brulee.

When they're done, the mayor thanks them for attending and congratulates Katniss with a kiss on the hand.

She just stands there, white as a ghost. She turns to look at Cato, panic in her eyes. _Do I give the "thank you for your hospitality" speech like I did at all the others?_

 _God. No!_ he mouths. He grabs her by her arm and yanks her. _Come on_. He squeezes her bicep and marches her out of the banquet room and down the hall. She's skittering beside him, practically running to keep up with his punishing pace.

As soon as they're out the door and into the car, she gasps for breath, as though she'd been holding it the entire time in there.

"Cato I'm so sorry!" she cries.

"Don't be fucking ridiculous. What do you have to be sorry about?" he snaps. He's annoyed. He certainly hadn't expected them to be nice. But he thought they'd at least be civil to her in their own icy way, even if they'd refused to acknowledge him.

One of the Peacekeepers taps on the window. Cinna rolls it down. "The visit to the Academy has been called off. The gamemakers agree that there's no point. Should we return to the train?"

"Yes. _Please_." Cinna says. "Let's get the hell out of here. See if we can get into 1 earlier than we were planning."

"I'm gonna go see Brutus," Cato says. After the funeral, his mentor's body had been returned to 2.

"Oh yeah, of course. But, Cato, I'm starving. Let's get something to eat first," the stylist suggests.

Cato agrees and they return to the train. He wolfs down a couple of sandwiches and an apple and then he's back on his feet. "I'm ready," he says to a Peacekeeper. "Is the car still here?"

"Yes sir. We had them wait for you."

"Do you want me to come with you?" It's Katniss. She's looking up at him and she seems upset. What is she upset about? Did she think they'd be excited to see her? Did she think they'd welcome her with open arms? God she's so stupid sometimes. And today she's especially annoying. It's like she needed him to coach her every step of the way. Can't she do anything on her own? For christ's sake what does she want from him? He already got her out of the arena. Was that not enough? And now she wants to come with him. So fucking clingy.

But the shit he's willing to put up with for her.

He looks up at the wall above her head. "Fine," he sighs. "But hurry up," he snaps as she slips on her boots and rummages for her coat.

xxxxxxxxxx

Brutus is buried at the far edge of Victor's Village, along with the other victors from 2 who have passed away.

As they drive by the huge, stately limestone houses, Cato turns his head to the left to look at his mansion.

Or...what used to be his mansion.

Now it's a gaping rectangular hole ringed by a blackened stone foundation in the middle of a plot of dead grass.

"Is that your-"

"What do you think?" he cuts her off. "Yes. That was my house. Obviously."

She doesn't say anything else.

"Stay in the car," he directs her when they reach the small grouping of tombs. He wants to be alone for this.

Brutus's tomb is a small granite mausoleum with a window on either side of the iron double doors. Cato makes his way up the three shallow steps and he pulls open the door. In the fading evening light, he can make out that the interior is all marble. There's a bench beneath each window and Brutus has been laid to rest in the back wall.

He walks over to it and traces the engraving with his fingers.

 _Brutus Pius McMahon_

 _Victor of the 46th Hunger Games_

 _March 15, 28 A.D.D. -June 17, 75 A.D.D._

He backs up and takes a seat on one of the marble benches.

And he just sits there. He lets his mind go.

He remembers how intimidated he was at six years old when he looked up at Brutus for the first time. He'd seemed like a giant back then.

He remembers the way Brutus would shake his head at him when the other boys in his class, all of whom had been bigger and taller than him at first, would steal his lunch and call him a pussy and punch him in the back of the head. "Suck it up kid," he'd say afterward. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

He remembers the surprise in Brutus's eyes the day he finally snapped and knocked out one of the other boys after they called him dumb for failing his math quiz. He remembers how that look of surprise quickly turned into one of approval.

He remembers the way Brutus had clapped him on his shoulder when he'd told him he'd spend three afternoons a week training alone with him.

He remembers the way Brutus had rolled his eyes and grinned after he'd proudly emerged, a virgin no more, from the pool house at the age of fourteen with Becca Jameson, one of the sixteen year old female candidates.

He remembers the way Brutus continued to push him over the years, never letting up, no matter how good he got, no matter how obvious it was that he'd be the one going to the 71st games. "Don't get cocky. Don't get complacent. That shit gets you killed in the arena," he'd said.

He remembers the way Brutus had stood onstage on his reaping day, chin lifted high with pride. He remembers the way he'd elbowed Marcus in the ribs as if to say _That's my boy._

He remembers the fear in Brutus's eyes as they'd stood facing one another just before Cato boarded the hovercraft that would take him to the arena. At the time had hadn't understood what it was. He had only known that it contradicted the firm handshake and the confident tone with which Brutus had said "Make us proud boy. Make us proud."

He remembers the love and relief in Brutus's eyes when he'd stepped off of the hovercraft not as a tribute, but as a Victor. He hadn't understood that at the time either. He had only known that it contradicted the firm handshake and the cool tone with which Brutus had said "Not too shabby."

He remembers the concern and helplessness with which Brutus had eyed him as his drinking had started to skyrocket, as he'd run through girl after girl. At the time he hadn't understood. After all, Brutus did the exact same thing himself. Now, as he sits across from his mentor's tomb, he understands that Brutus felt like they were trapped on a train barreling at top speed down a hillside and into an abyss.

He remembers the despair in Brutus's voice the night he died.

But mostly he remembers how warm he'd felt inside whenever Brutus had called him _son_.

It's full dark out now. He can't even make out the letters on Brutus's tomb anymore. The wind has picked up; he can hear the fallen leaves swirling against the facade of the mausoleum.

He stands and opens the door and steps out into the cold to find that snowflakes have started to fall.

Katniss is standing at the bottom of the steps with her hands folded and her head bowed. She's not wearing a coat or gloves or a hat.

"I told you to stay in the car," he barks at her.

She lifts her head. "I wanted to pay my respects too." She's soft, but defiant.

Once they're settled back in the car, he glances at her. Her face is turned away, she's looking out her window.

He's been short with her all day. But it's just because he's upset about everyone turning their backs on him and about his house and about Brutus. And he needs to release his steam somehow…

He reaches out and takes her hand. He squeezes it. _I'm sorry_.

She squeezes it back, but releases it immediately. She doesn't turn her head to look at him. _I know you're upset. I understand. But I'm hurt_.

He looks down at his lap. It's no less than he deserves.

xxxxxxxxxx

They make a second stop before they return to the train. At a small brick house near the southern edge of town.

She looks at him questioningly.

"My parents."

She nods. She makes no move to get out of the car when he opens his door and steps out onto the sidewalk.

Cato didn't bother to search the crowd for his mom and dad earlier. He's sure they either didn't attend or turned around with everyone else. If they did the latter, he understands. They would have felt like they had to. To fit in. To keep from being ostracized.

He straightens his tie and he knocks on the door.

His mother flings the door open and throws her arms around him. He's immediately enveloped in the rich, heady smell of gardenias. He breathes it in and smiles. His day has just improved exponentially.

But all too soon, his mother is pulling back and glancing back over her shoulder furtively. "Cato, you have to go before your fath-"

"June! Who's at the door?"

He doesn't understand. "Mom. What do you mean before-"

"June!" His father's voice is closer now. He appears in the doorway, illuminated by the light from the hallway behind him.

His mother's eyes are wide as saucers.

"Dad," Cato says, and holds out his hand.

But his father's face is twisted in disgust. "What the hell are you doing here? Get out. You're not welcome here. Go live in 12 with those filthy rats."

"Dad?" he asks at the same time that his mother says "Gaius" in an imploring tone. "Just a few minutes with him. Please. He's our son."

But his father grabs his mother firmly by the arm and pushes her toward the living room. "Son? I don't have a son. This boy standing here is just some weak pussy-whipped piece of shit." And he slams the door in Cato's face.

Cato stands there for a minute in shock as he studies the brass knocker on the dark wood door. _Hadley_ it says. _Hadley._ That's his name. This is his parents' house. It's the place he lived until he was six. His mother soothed his earache in her rocking chair in the living room. She hung his crayon drawings on the walls in the hallway and in the dining room.

And he's not welcome here anymore.

He's angry with himself all of a sudden. What the fuck did he think was gonna happen? That his father would be excited to see him? That he'd welcome him with open arms? No. He's brought shame down on them. He's a disgrace. His father probably can't even show his face at work anymore.

He turns back toward the car and he can tell by the look on her face that even if she didn't hear any of it, she know what's just happened.

She looks upset. She should be. This is her fucking fault. He sacrificed all of this-the adoration and respect of his district, his mansion, his family-for her.

He can't stand the pity in her eyes as he climbs back into the car and shuts his door.

"I-"

"Don't," he snaps. "Just don't. And stop fucking looking at me like that."

She turns her head back toward her window and they don't speak another word.

xxxxxxxxxx

When they get back to the train he makes his way to the last car. The one with the panoramic windows. But he doesn't pull out his sketchbook or his pencils. He shrugs off his jacket and lays it carefully on the back of the wraparound sofa. He loosens his tie. He sits down. He stares out the window at the long grass waving in the wind.

 _Say goodbye to it_ he thinks to himself as the train starts to move. _Say goodbye_.

And he watches in silence as the snow swirls across the prairie. As he leaves his home behind forever.

xxxxxxxxxx

What has to be a couple of hours later he hears the door slide open. He doesn't turn to see who it is.

"Here." Her voice is soft. He looks up to find her in that black silk robe. Her legs and feet are bare. Her hair is mussed and it grazes her shoulders.

She's holding out a glass of rye whiskey. He takes it from her and downs it in one swallow. He sets it on the table at his right.

He lets his eyes roam up and down her body. _Pussy-whipped_. That's what his father called him. He almost snorts. He's never even gotten inside of her. He wonders what his father would think if he knew that. He'd probably be even more ashamed of him.

 _This is all her fault. Ratty little bitch. With her ratty gray eyes_. He studies her thighs. _And her ratty hair._ He studies her chest. _If I'm gonna be pussy-whipped by some rat I may as well actually_ _get_ _some pussy out of her._

His dick is starting to harden.

He looks up at her. He wonders if she can tell what he's thinking about. He wonders if she can read the lust in his eyes.

And to his surprise, not only does she seem to understand, but to reciprocate. Her eyes are darker than usual. But they're not cold. They're smoky. They're hungry.

She lifts her hand and runs it through his hair, her fingertips grazing his scalp. It feels so good. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch. She does it again. And again. And again.

He opens his eyes and she's gazing down at him through half-closed lids. He puts his hands on her hips. He can feel her bones beneath his thumbs. He draws her closer to him, until she's standing between his knees.

He can hear her heart beating.

She wants him. He knows it.

Of course she does. He's never met a woman who didn't want him.

He leans forward and presses his lips to her breastbone, just above the lacy edge of the little black slip she's got on under that robe.

She gasps and her fingers tighten in his hair. She arches into him. He kisses a little higher. He squeezes her hips a little harder. She makes a soft little sound that's a cross between a sigh and a moan. It's fucking hot.

He pulls back and looks up at her. She looks down at him.

And it's on.

He yanks her onto his lap so she's straddling one of his thighs, her knees planted on the cushion on either side of it. His mouth is on hers and he's hungry and desperate, but so is she. Her hands are fisted in his hair and she's moaning as their tongues make contact with one another over and over and over again.

He runs his hands hungrily up and down her back and then he settles them on her ass, a cheek cupped in each palm, and he hears himself let out some kind of barbaric grunt as he squeezes them firmly. She gasps and he feels a surge of warm moisture through the fabric of his pants. His dick strains against his fly and he hitches her closer to his body and he kneads her ass. He moves his mouth down to her neck and she tastes so good, he sucks and he nips and then he sucks some more. She's whimpering and rubbing herself back and forth on the top of his thigh and it's so fucking hot, so he squeezes her ass even harder and he helps her, pushing and pulling her body with her rhythm.

But why is there so much fucking fabric between them?!

He's got his fingers on the tie of her robe and he's fumbling at the knot, his frustration with it growing every second. _What did she do? What the hell kind of knot is this?_ She shoves him off of her and digs at it herself, her fingers impatient as she chews on the bottom of her lip. God it's taking forever. He's about two seconds away from just ripping it off when the tie comes undone in her hands and she slides the robe off her shoulders. It falls to the floor at his feet with a _swish_.

And his tongue is back in her hot little mouth and he wonders what it would feel like if his dick were jammed in there instead. If he has his way he's gonna find out soon enough.

He feels her fingers on the loosened knot of his tie and he pulls back as she slips it from around his neck and then she's pulling his shirttails out from his pants and undoing the buttons.

He stands up without warning her, but it's ok because he's got an iron grip on her ass. She wraps her legs around him and he doesn't know how, but somehow he makes it to his room and he slams the door shut and plops down in the cushy chair in the corner and she's straddling his thigh again.

She pushes his shirt off of his shoulders and then she tugs at his undershirt so he lets go of her and yanks it off. He grasps the hem of her slip and she lifts her arms as he pulls it over her head and then she goes back to rubbing herself on him but he doesn't return his mouth to hers, because right there in front of him are her perfect little tits and they're begging to be sucked on. He darts forward and catches one up in his mouth, running his tongue over it and sucking greedily on her nipple.

She cries out and jerks on his thigh and he feels a new rush of moisture on it.

Oh, she wants it so fucking bad.

And he's gonna give it to her.

He stands up and takes two steps to the bed and he tosses her down onto it. Her hands are at his belt. He kicks off his shoes. She's got him unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped and now she's shoving his pants down his hips.

He reaches down and yanks her thong off.

Oh that pussy. It's gonna be so sweet. So warm. So wet.

He shimmies out of his pants and his boxers and as he looks down between her legs, he strokes himself a couple of times.

Mmmm this little whore. He's gonna bury himself inside of her as deep as he can. And he's gonna give her something she'll never forget. He's gonna bust her open until he busts one in her. He's gonna fuck her raw. He's gonna fuck her so hard she won't be able to walk tomorrow. So good she's gonna forget her own name. In fact, she's only gonna know two words: _Please_ and _Cato._ He's gonna have her on all fours begging for him. And after he's done tearing that pussy apart he's gonna ram his cock into her tight little asshole and make her scream all over again and then he's gonna pull out and cover her in his-

"Cato, please!" The words sound right, but the tone is off. It's panicky. Like the sound a cornered animal makes. "Please. Please stop."

He shakes his head to clear it. The fog in his head starts to dissipate.

He's on top of her, his dick between her thighs, right up against her entrance.

She's shaking and her eyes are wide with fright. Her fingers are curled against his shoulders and she's bracing herself against him as if she's trying to push him away.

She _is_ trying to push him away.

 _What is he_ _doing_ _?! What is_ _wrong_ _with him?!_

He pushes up off of her and sits back on his heels.

She crosses her arms over her chest and she sits up and starts looking around frantically and he realizes she's looking for her clothes. He can sense her panic and discomfort growing.

He leans down and grabs her slip off of the floor and he hands it to her and closes his eyes, and then he takes the gray cashmere throw off the foot of the bed and holds it out in her general direction. He feels her take it from him.

"I don't know what happened…" she says, her voice unsteady. He opens his eyes. Her hair is a mess and her lashes are thick and dark and wet with tears. "I..it felt so good and then I don't know. I don't know what happened," she repeats.

But Cato does. "I was too rough. I don't...I don't know how to do it...you know...I've never done it..."

"Had sex?" She looks so confused.

"No, I've had sex. But I've never done it like...where I actually cared about the person I was doing it with. I don't know how to do that."

"It was fast," she says. "Just...too fast. It was just...too much all at once and it happened so fast and I thought maybe I was ready, but now I don't think I am." She looks miserable as she hugs the blanket around herself, and even in the dim light from the window he can see her embarrassment on her tear-streaked face.

He nods. He can see that she isn't ready at all. But _christ_ it's starting to ache. He looks down at his penis longingly. _I'm sorry buddy._

"I'm sorry I didn't realize it until we got this far," she whispers as she stands to leave.

"Katniss-" he says, but she's already closing his door behind her.

He sighs and falls back onto the pillows.

Well, he may as well take care of himself.

It doesn't take long. Only a couple of minutes really, because he can still hear her little moans and whimpers and he can feel her grinding against his thigh, but when it's over he feels horribly guilty.

He just told her that he doesn't know how to do this with someone he cares about and that's true, but he's left out that he started this whole thing out of misplaced anger and a fucked up sense of entitlement. As though she owes him and he's got every right to take something from her. And he's angry, yes, but now, as he sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, he knows it's not at her. Not really. It's at this whole fucking situation in 2. At the people of his district and especially his father.

He thinks back with horror over the day and he recognizes his behavior toward Katniss. It's the way his father, embittered by his low standing at the Academy (not even good enough to become an instructor after his last Reaping Day), has treated his mother his whole life. Like an emotional punching bag.

And now he doesn't know what to do about Katniss. She seems pretty upset, and she probably wants to be left alone. But he's got this image in his mind of her curled up in a ball on her bed, all by herself and crying, and he can't stand the thought of it.

He stands up and he goes to the bathroom and he turns on the tap and splashes his face with ice cold water and then he leans down and guzzles a few mouthfuls. He stands up and towels off and he looks at himself in the mirror.

He'll just go and ask her if she's ok. Yeah. That's what he'll do. Cuz what's the worst that could happen? She might throw something at him and yell at him to go away. That's not so terrible.

He pulls on his boxers and he makes the short trip to her room.

"Yeah?" she asks through the door in answer to his soft tap.

"Are you ok?"

She opens the door and he almost goes hard again. She's in his button-down shirt. The same one she wore last night.

"You're in my shirt," he points out.

She looks down at it. "I figured we wouldn't be sleeping in the same bed tonight. I'll give it back. I know you're probably upset with me."

"I'm not upset with you," he says, his voice so tender he almost doesn't recognize it.

She looks relieved.

He can't keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. "Well my dick was a little annoyed with you. You got a rise out of him. But he's over it now. He's calmed down. Softened up. Got it out of his system."

"Are you making a pun?" she asks in disbelief.

He shrugs. "Not a very good one."

But she's laughing. It's such a warm sound.

He's made her laugh.

And she's wearing his shirt, which does all kinds of things to him.

And now she's asking him, shyly, if he'll still stay with her in spite of what just happened.

He feels like a king.


	13. Whatever This Is With Us

**A/N:** **I know it seems late in the game, but it's just occurred to me to share my casting notes with you. In my mind, many of the characters are the actors from the movies (Effie, Cinna, Haymitch, Prim, Mrs. Everdeen, Snow, Plutarch, Beetee, Enobaria), and Cato is definitely Alexander Ludwig, but more like what he looks like now rather than when they shot the first movie.**

 **Tony Waterford is basically a young T.I.**

 **I don't have anyone in mind for Katniss, but she's not Jennifer Lawrence. Due to her coloring, I picture her as having inherited Middle Eastern, Mediterranean, or Latina characteristics from her father.**

 **Similarly, Gale is not Liam Hemsworth, but possibly of mixed race.**

 **Brutus is Chuck Liddell with a pot belly :)**

 **Thanks for all of the kind reviews!**

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato wakes the next morning slowly. He's dreaming of Katniss touching his face while she's wearing his shirt. But the dream is fading out.

 _No_ he whines to himself. _Just a little longer_. But it keeps fading.

Except, curiously, he can still feel her hand on his face and he can still smell her, even though he can't see her anymore.

And then he remembers that he's in her bed and he realizes that she is, in fact, touching his face.

He's awake now. But he keeps his eyes closed and his breath slow and deep so she'll think he's still sleeping. So she won't stop. She's running her fingers back and forth along his jawline.

But after a few minutes she does stop and he opens his eyes right into her gray ones.

She's startled and she lets out a gasp and blushes

"I-" she starts to say something but Cato silences her mouth with his own.

This time he's determined to be slow and careful. He kisses her languidly, sleepily, with no sense of having to move on to the next thing. He's just exploring, familiarizing himself with her lips and her teeth and her tongue.

He likes kissing her like this, he decides. It's intoxicating. Like a drug. Except he likes it better than all of the other drugs he's tried. Better than alcohol, better than morphling, better than cocaine (which he's never really been a fan of anyway).

He lifts his hand to her face and runs his thumb across her cheekbone and under her eye. He kisses the underside of her jaw and runs the pads of his fingers across her lips.

"I'm not ready," she whispers against them.

"I know," he whispers back. "I just want to kiss you. Unless you want me to stop." He pulls back and looks at her. "I'll stop if you want me to."

Her eyes are cloudy and she looks just as drunk as he feels. She shakes her head. "No. Don't."

He's pretty sure she means she doesn't want him to stop but he pauses and waits for her to clarify.

Which she does by pulling his head back down to hers.

So he continues his exploration.

He sucks on her bottom lip. And her top one too. He kisses each corner of her mouth. He runs his tongue along hers and he likes how she responds by lifting her head slightly off the pillow and drawing him deeper into her mouth.

When he finally draws back, ready to map out another part of her face, she catches his tongue between her lips and sucks on it lightly. Just a little bit. Just the tip.

He groans and she releases him. "Please don't do that."

She cocks her head. "You didn't like it?"

"Oh no, I liked it. A little too much."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's ok. Just don't do it again," he growls teasingly into her ear and he reaches down and squeezes her hip.

She shivers and sighs. "At least not today."

"At least not today," he agrees.

She's got a small face, delicate and thin, but as he brushes his lips over the apple of one of her cheeks, he realizes why it's named after a fruit. She's smiling and he can feel how deliciously plump it is, so he gives it a gentle bite and runs his tongue over it.

She giggles and he feels her eyelashes against his face. "What are you doing?"

"Seeing if you taste like apples."

"Do I?"

"No."

"Did you think I would?"

"Not really."

She thinks he's crazy. He can tell by the way she's looking at him.

He leans in and kisses her eye socket, runs his lips back and forth softly across her eyelashes, fits the tip of his tongue into her tear duct. She sighs and her fingers find his collarbone and hook into it. He kisses her on the browbone, right where the hardness of it juts out.

He kisses the center of her forehead. He closes his lips over the pulse beneath her ear and sucks on it gently, drawing the skin into his mouth. He licks the hollow spot at the center of the base of her throat. He makes his way up her collarbone.

When he reaches her neck, she gasps a little. "Don't do that," she whispers.

He draws back and lifts his head. "You don't like it?"

"No. I like it, but…" She shimmies a little underneath him. She's rubbing her thighs together.

He laughs.

He likes this. The two of them. Cozy under the covers. Lazy in the morning sun.

She leans up and pecks him shyly on his eyelid and she twines her arms around his neck and leans back on the pillows. He follows her down and rests his weight on top of her and she kisses him on the mouth and sinks her teeth lightly into his bottom lip.

He runs his hand beneath her left shoulder and traces the blade of it with his fingertips over the fabric of his now-wrinkled shirt, which she seems to have officially appropriated for herself. He curls his hands around her biceps where they lie against his neck and caresses the places where he cut her all those months ago.

"My scars are all gone," she says. "They did this thing where they smoothed them out and polished the skin. While I was recovering."

"I know. I told them to do it."

She blinks in surprise. "Why?"

"So you could forget about me. About what I did to you." He tugs on the cuff that she's rolled up to her elbow. "I like you in my shirt, by the way."

She's studying him intensely all of a sudden. "Cato, what is this?"

"What is what?"

"This. Whatever this is with us."

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's whatever you want it to be."

She narrows her eyes. "But what is it to _you_?"

 _Oh fuck_. He drops his head onto her chest. He had all these plans that he made that other night. The order he was gonna ask things in so he could save face if it looked like she'd reject him. But now his brain can't recall any of his questions.

He lays there for a few seconds, trying to decide what to tell her. And then he settles on it. The truth. He'll tell her the truth.

"It's everything," he says, his voice muffled against her skin.

He hears her sharp intake of breath. He can feel the rise and fall of her chest beneath him, he can hear her heart pounding. "What do you mean it's everything? Do you...l-love me?"

He nods against her breastbone.

She gasps. "I don't believe you. Say it if it's true. Say it. Out loud."

He lets out a shaky breath that makes her shiver, and squeezes his eyes shut. He lifts his head and looks into her stunned gray eyes. And he shrugs. "I love you." It's a simple statement. Matter-of-fact. As though he's just told her that the earth revolves around the sun or that human beings need oxygen to live. There's no trace of doubt in his voice.

She looks as if she's just been struck across the face.

And then the door to her room flies open.

"Alright Girl on Fire, time to-whoa!"

Cato and Katniss both snap their heads to the doorway.

"Jesus christ Cinna!" Cato yells. "Don't you know how to fucking knock?!"

"I'm sorry! I didn't know!"

"You _saw_ me come in here last night!"

"I just thought you were gonna do what I used to! Calm her down and leave!"

"I've been staying here every night! How the fuck have you not noticed?!" But Cinna has already backed out and closed the door.

Cato groans and buries his face in Katniss's chest again. " _Fuuuuuck!_ "

"In all fairness, this is his usual time to wake me up. And you're always long gone by now."

"Oh, so this is your fault then. For not paying attention to the time."

"Sure. If you have to have someone to blame about this."

He looks back up at her. "I do."

"Cato…" She's turned serious again.

"Later. Let's talk about it tonight. When we have more time."

She nods. "Yeah. Ok." She's looking at him curiously. He knows what's going on in her head. She's wondering why he hasn't asked if she loves him back.

But he's afraid to ask. He's afraid the answer will be _no_.

xxxxxxxxxx

They love her in 1. They cheer wildly. Their gift to commemorate her victory is not a plaque, but a necklace of hundreds of tiny red and orange and yellow diamonds that curls around her throat and snakes its way down into the valley between her breasts in delicate, flame-like tendrils. The mayor proudly tells her that it was designed exclusively for her and that each and every gem was carefully selected and hand-set by the most renowned jeweler in 1.

In the short respite between the public ceremony and dinner, when it's just the two of them, she stares down at it in awe, running her fingers over the jewels and turning it this way and that to admire its glitter beneath the light of the chandelier.

"You like it?" he asks her. He's surprised; it's not the kind of thing he'd think she'd be into.

"Not for me, no. I don't like jewelry. But it's still beautiful. It's still art." She places it carefully in its white velvet presentation box and hands it to the Peacekeeper charged with guarding it for the rest of the tour. "Why did they do this for me? I didn't think they'd like me much here. But the way they cheered…"

"It's because of me," Cato says. "There's a huge rivalry between 1 and 2 and I caused a scandal. I embarassed 2. They're drooling over it here."

"Oh. I see. So they weren't nearly as excited about your victory four years ago, huh? No fancy necklace for you?"

"No," he laughs. "A nice watch. But no necklace. I'm a little jealous actually."

"I'll let you wear it if you want," she teases, her eyes glowing. "It's not really my thing. You can try it on tonight. When we get back to the train. It doesn't really fit with your usual color scheme but..."

"I don't think it'll fit around my neck. But thank you for the offer." He grins down at her.

He feels tender towards her right now. He loves this side of her. The warm, playful one. It's such a wonderful contrast to the sullen, stormy girl he first met. But he loves that girl, too. He loves all of her. He's never met anyone like her, with all of these different facets, a woman who is somehow _all_ women, and yet always unfailingly true to herself, even when she's forced to play the good little Victor.

She catches him gazing at her and she blushes. _There's the pure, innocent one_. Then she scowls. "What?" she asks with irritation. "Why are you looking at me like that?" _Aaaaaand there's the sullen one again._

But it only makes him more tender. "You know why," he says. "You know exactly why."

xxxxxxxxxx

She may not be a fan of diamonds, but she loves champagne. A little too much. Six glasses too much.

He curses himself for spending too much time talking to Gloss and not keeping an eye on her.

By the time they get back to the train she's giggling and hiccuping all over the place. She teeters up the steps and onto the platform, and after she catches her heel in between two planks and nearly twists her ankle, Cato resorts to just picking her up bodily and hauling her the rest of the way.

The second they're in her room she throws herself at him. "Let's do it," she slurs breathlessly.

"Do what?"

" _It_!"

"If you can't even bring yourself to say it then you're not ready to do it."

She scrunches her face up. "Fine! Let's...do...sex."

He can't keep the smile off of face. "Let's do sex?"

"Just shut up and take your clothes off!"

"No. Hmm-mm. No way. You're shit-faced."

"I am not!" It's whiny. She's got her arms around his neck and her fingers in his hair.

"Yes you are." He pries her off of him.

She pouts. She actually sticks her bottom lip out. "Pleeaase."

"No."

She huffs and steps back and kicks off her shoes. He starts undressing for the night. He turns and drapes his jacket and his tie over the chair.

When he turns back around she's completely naked. She's got her chin lowered and she's looking up at him like he's some kind of prey. And she's stalking toward him like a predator. A sloppy one. But still. It's fucking hot. "How about now?" she purrs.

Is this what it feels like to be hunted by her? Because _god_. _damn_. Sign him up for that shit. Hand her a bow and arrow and toss him into the woods.

He shakes his head and tries his best to ignore his hard-on.

"No," he says again. She lifts her fingers and starts to unbutton his shirt and then she stands on tip toe and places a soft kiss on the side of his neck.

 _Nope. Too much. Too much._

He picks her up by her waist and sets her down on the mattress firmly and the he takes a step back. "Go to bed," he says, his voice stern.

She snakes one of her legs between his and hooks him behind the knee to draw him closer. "Mmmm, yes sir. Boss me around some more."

He just stares down at her. His dick is throbbing. For a split second he seriously considers turning her over and giving her ass a beating with one hand while he rubs her off with the other as both a punishment for being so frustrating and a reward for being so fucking sexy.

But no. It's unacceptable. Not like this.

He musters up his brutal side, which is no easy feat right now. "Katniss!" he barks in his harshest tone. "Seriously. Go to fucking sleep!"

Her eyes go wide and fill with tears and her bottom lip starts to quiver. "You don't want me!" she wails.

Oh jesus _chriiiiiist_. Not the tears. He turns to mush. "No, I do, baby, I do. Trust me. Oh god the things I want to do to you. Things you don't even know are possible. But you're drunk. We'll do them in the morning," he lies. "Ok? We'll do them in the morning. After you've had a good sleep."

Her eyes light up. "Why? Do I have to be well-rested for what we're gonna do?"

"Yes," he says solemnly. "Very. And the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner morning will come."

"Ok," she says happily and lays down on top of the covers.

 _Finally_. He's exhausted. He loves the different versions of her, but he does _not_ love it when she runs through all of them in the space of five minutes.

He finishes undressing and climbs under the covers.

And then she sits up.

Oh god. He knows that look. "Katniss babe...you feeling ok?"

She shakes her head. "Hmm-mmm."

"What's wrong?"

"Room's spinning."

"Feel like you wanna throw up?"

She nods.

"Come on," he sighs.

He gets her into the bathroom and on her knees in front of the toilet and he pulls her hair back.

"This is why you can't have six glasses of champagne the first time you drink," he scolds as she unloads the contents of her stomach into the bowl.

"It's not the first time I've ever drank!" she protests weakly.

"I meant besides a glass of wine at dinner."

She tenses and retches and vomits again. "It burns!"

"That's because it's fizzy."

She vomits again. And again. And again.

And Cato just stands above her patiently, her hair in his hand, until she seems like she's gotten it all out.

"Better?"

"I think so." She spits into the toilet one last time and sits back on her heels.

He leans over and looks down at her. She's a hot mess. Her mascara is everywhere, her eyes are filled with tears from straining over the bowl, and she's buck naked. He gets a washcloth and wipes down her face and then he hands her a glass of water and directs her to sip it slowly.

"Come on, let's go back to bed."

But as she stands, her face takes on a greenish cast again. "Nope. Gotta stay here." She lowers herself back down and curls up in the fetal position on the marble floor in front of the toilet.

"Seriously?!"

"Don't yell at me," she whimpers. "I didn't mean to get so drunk."

"I'm not yelling!"

"Yes you are! You're yelling at me!" And she starts crying.

He looks down at her in exasperation. She's just a weepy naked ball with raccoon eyes and she smells like fizzy, champagne-infused vomit.

But he loves her. God he loves her.

So he goes into the bedroom and he pulls his gray cashmere throw (the one he wrapped her in last night) off of her bed and he wraps her up in it again tonight and he puts a towel under her head. And he lays down behind her, right there on the bathroom floor, and he takes her in his arms.

"Cato?" she sniffles.

"Yes?"

"Do you still love me?"

"Yes."

"Good."

She's silent for a minute.

And then-

"I think maybe I'm starting to love you too."

His heart jumps in his chest. But she's drunk. She's drunk. She's probably just saying it because she's drunk. "Ssshh. You're just drunk. You don't mean that."

"Yes I do. I've thought it before."

Cato scoffs. "When?" He's incredulous.

She yawns. "That night after 8. Before 7. When I cried to you about missing my dad."

It steals the breath from his lungs. A week ago. That was a week ago.

He tightens his arms around her and he melts like butter into the cold marble floor.

He's in for a miserably uncomfortable night, at least in the physical sense. He can already tell that his neck and shoulder are gonna be stiff as hell tomorrow. And she smells like sour champagne. And now she's snoring softly. Huh. She's never done _that_ before. It's very unladylike.

He sighs and buries his face in her hair.

She's a hot mess.

She's a little tornado.

And the shit he's willing to put up with for her? She's worth every ounce of it.


	14. Mine

Katniss has her first hangover the next day, and she's more of a baby about it than Cato would have expected.

"Make it go away!" she moans. "This is worse than the tracker jackers."

"I doubt that," he says dryly. He's got very little sympathy for her. It's her own doing.

He and Cinna convince her to eat a huge greasy breakfast of fried eggs and sausage and hashbrowns, and after struggling to keep the first few bites down, she starts to feel better, so Cato takes her to his place in Victor's Row.

She wanders through the rooms, all of which are dark and masculine. She wrinkles her nose. "I hate it," she says. "Do they all look like this?"

"No, I had some interior designer do it."

"And you like it?"

He shrugs. "It's alright. It fits my personality."

"Dark and oppressive?" she teases.

But then she turns serious. "It fits the image you project to everyone. But it's not the real you. It's not the you I know."

xxxxxxxxxx

She's feeling almost 100% by the time Cinna and his assistants arrive to start getting her ready for the Presidential Ball.

The dress they put her in is red and extremely low-cut. It's the perfect backdrop for that necklace from 1. A little too perfect in fact…

He raises his eyebrows at Cinna.

"They sent me a sketch of the necklace a while ago," the stylist confirms. "So I could make a dress to go with it."

Katniss tugs irritably at the gems. "I don't like the way this feels. Like a collar or a noose or something."

"Well it's only a few hours you need to wear it," Cinna says. "And besides, you look stunning. Doesn't she Cato?"

Cato frowns. "I hate it," he says. "All of it. The dress. The necklace. The makeup."

"Cato!" Effie scolds. "She looks beautiful!"

"I never said she didn't. But it's not the real her. It's not the Katniss I know."

xxxxxxxxx

Almost as soon as she makes her grand entrance, a server offers her a glass of champagne, but she makes a disgusted face and waves it away.

Cato smirks. "I see we've learned our lesson."

She scowls. "Don't be such a condescending dick."

"I thought you were feeling better."

"I am. But I caught a whiff of that champagne, and for a second there... _Gaaahh_." She shudders.

"I'll get you some ginger ale," he says.

"No! No alcohol."

He smiles. "It's not alcohol. It's fizzy and it tastes like ginger and it'll settle your stomach."

He's just ordering it for her at the bar when the president walks up beside him. "So courteous," Snow says. "How utterly unlike you. You must be quite taken with Miss Everdeen."

Cato doesn't have a response to this. He simply glares at the old man.

"Well," the president continues. "It was a very successful tour."

Cato snorts. "Except for 2 and 11."

Snow's eyes narrow and he rests a hand on Cato's upper arm. "My dear boy, whatever are you talking about? From what I saw everyone loved the newest victor. They all cheered wildly for her."

He's squeezing Cato's bicep just a little harder than necessary. He has a _tone_. Like the one Seeder asked Katniss about in 11.

Cato's confused, but the president has released his grip on his arm. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go ask Miss Everdeen for the first dance of the evening."

"No!" It comes out involuntarily, forcefully. _Shit_.

Snow raises his eyebrows. "No?"

"I was hoping to dance with her first, that's all, Sir." Cato forces himself to calm down, to sound more deferential.

"Aaahh, yes, I see. Of course. You know, we don't talk much about the time before the Dark Days, but did you know, my boy, that the ancients had a marriage tradition where the father would have the first dance with his daughter at her wedding? And then after that, he would hand her off to her new husband for their first dance as a married couple. This is something like that, is it not? The mentor," he gestures toward Cato, "having his last moment with his protege before she's given over to another?" And Snow turns to look at Tony Waterford, who is talking with Katniss.

Cato feels a surge of anger and a surge of jealousy, but above all else, it's fear that washes through him.

"Well, go on then," Snow says. "Don't keep her waiting on her ginger ale."

xxxxxxxxxx

When it's time for the dancing to start, Cato takes Katniss firmly by her right elbow and leads her onto the floor.

He's going to make it clear to everyone in this room that he's laying claim.

His hand on the small of her back is possessive. He spreads his fingers, covering as much surface area as possible. He pulls her in closer than necessary. And then he places a kiss on her forehead. He can feel her surprise at his display of public affection. But he doesn't pull back. He just keeps his lips pressed to her and as he spins her slowly around the floor he glares at all of them over her head.

And then he locks eyes with Tony Waterford, who is studying him in amusement, a smirk on his face, his arms folded across his chest.

And Cato tightens his grip on her, he pulls her in even closer.

 _Mine_ he thinks. _She's mine_.

xxxxxxxxxx

The second they are allowed to leave he tells an Avox to summon their driver.

She's set to go home tomorrow and it's shortest night of his life. He doesn't sleep at all. Instead, he spends it propped up against his headboard with his arms around Katniss as she rests her head on his chest.

"What happened?" she asks. "To make you love me?"

He counters with a question of his own. "Why did you touch me that night after Brutus's funeral?"

"Are you just gonna ignore my question?"

"Answer mine first and I'll get to yours."

She shrugs against him. "You just looked so miserable and lonely. And I couldn't stand you, but at the funeral I saw how even though all of you from 2 stood together it was like there were these walls up between you. Like none of you could actually connect with each other because of them. And they'd been showing all of this coverage of Brutus's life and a lot of it was of you and him, and it seemed very father-son...in a fucked up way, of course." He smiles at this.

"And I thought about when my dad was killed," she continues. "How my mom just sat there like a slug. And Prim was so little. I didn't know Gale yet. I was eleven years old and I had _no one_. I was so scared. And so lonely. And no one offered me comfort. It was just me and Prim, clinging to each other. And so I looked at you and I thought that even _you_ didn't deserve to go through this completely alone. So that's why I did. There. I answered your question. Now you answer mine."

Cato takes a deep breath. "I've fucked hundreds of women," he says, and Katniss tenses in his arms. "And they all have this greedy look in their eyes. They want money or status or maybe just to tell their friends they got with me, I don't know, but they objectify me just as much as I objectify them. Not one of them actually gives a shit about me. And why should they, right? I get it. I'm no better. It's not like I gave a shit about any of them either. But you...I treated you like fucking dirt. And that night it was like I looked up at you and you didn't want _anything_ from me. You just cared, even if it was only for a few seconds. And then you said that thing about Brutus being like my father, and I felt like someone actually understood me for once. Even better than I understood myself. And so there you are this scrappy little shit. Tough as nails, rough life. But it hadn't killed whatever it was in you that made you do that for me." He shrugs. "And that was it."

She's looking up at him now. "What do you mean that was it?"

"I mean that was it. Fuck Quintus, fuck Clove, fuck the games, fuck 2. None of them cared about me, none of them understood me. But you did. Maybe it was only for a minute, but you did. And I was done for. Not even subconsciously. I flat out knew it. Done for. I couldn't even talk to you after that. I felt like a pile of mush around you. I was a fucking wreck the whole time you were in the arena. And your shoulder…" He trails off and closes his eyes at the memory of the _pop_ and the sick look on her face when he dislocated it. He takes in a big, shaky breath, and he exhales it in four whispered syllables. "I'm so sorry."

She doesn't say it's ok. Because it wasn't and it still isn't. But she's forgiven him and he knows it. He can tell by the way she presses her forehead into his chest. So he buries his face in the hair on top of her head and lays his palm against that left shoulder.

"Stay," he says into her hair after a few minutes. "Longer. With me."

"Here in your house?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

 _Forever_. "However long you want. Stay til you have to go back to 12 for the next Reaping Day."

He can feel her smiling into his chest. "That's like five months from now. And then I'd have to turn around and come right back here."

"That's the idea."

She's still smiling. "And I already told you I hate what you've done with the place."

"I give you free rein to change whatever you want. Knock all the walls down and gut the place."

"Cato…"

"I know," he sighs. "Your family. So then I'll have to wait til May." Jesus christ, what is he gonna do for five months? Besides have his place redecorated so that it's more to her liking.

"Maybe I'll come back for a couple weeks in like February. That's only two months. And anyway, I can call you now you know. They let me have a phone."

"Yeah ok." But he's worried. Two months is a long time. A lot can happen in two months. She could forget all about him. And he knows who's back there in 12 waiting for her.

"So your friend Gale…" he hears himself say.

"What about him?"

"He's gonna come after you." She scoffs. "Fine, don't believe me," he says. "But a guy knows when another one is after what he considers his."

She hitches her breath. But then she speaks and her voice is sad. "He's my friend Cato. My best friend. Or at least he was before the games. I can't just abandon him."

"Who said anything about abandoning him? You do what you want. I'm just warning you so you're not completely floored when he tells you he's in love with you. So you'll at least have some plan of how to react."

"I thought maybe you were gonna try to tell me I couldn't have anything to do with him."

Actually, he would love to say that, and throw in a _you are_ _mine_ for good measure, but he knows better. It won't do any good. She'll do what she wants regardless.

So he tightens his arms around her and mouths the word to the universe. _Mine_.

xxxxxxxxxx

Morning comes too soon and as Katniss dozes against him, Cato watches in dismay as the sun's rays begin to peek around the edges of his heavy black drapes.

He slips out from under her and tucks the sheets around her, and then he goes downstairs to his kitchen.

For the most part Cato can't cook, but he loves breakfast and so he's taught himself to make eggs and pancakes and homefries and bacon.

Today though he thinks he'll make french toast and sausage.

As he fries up the bread and browns the sausages, he wonders how you make hot chocolate. He's not a huge fan of it himself, so he really has no idea. But he's going to learn by February so he can have it for her when she comes to visit. He's going to have whipped cream too, he decides. And chocolate sprinkles. Maybe he will learn how to make that lamb stew she likes. And he's going to have all of his walls painted lighter colors. Maybe like white or cream or something. Yeah. That's what he'll do.

He scoops the french toast onto two plates and slathers the pieces with butter and maple syrup and he divides the sausage links up.

"How many girls have you done this for? Hundreds?"

He turns to find her in the doorway.

He shakes his head. "Just you."

"I didn't know you could cook."

"I can't really. Just breakfast. And I can grill meat. And that's about it."

She sits down at the counter and he hands her her plate and a fork.

"What is this?"

"French toast," he says.

"What does french mean?"

"I dunno. I think it must have to do with how it's prepared. How it's dipped in eggs and milk and fried."

She takes a bite and gasps. "Mmmmoooohhmygod."

Cato feels a surge of pride. "Like it?" he asks as he pours her a glass of orange juice.

"I love it," she says with her mouth full.

Cato's feeling quite smug with himself. She spent the night in his arms and now she's sitting in his kitchen and she's wearing his shirt from last night and she's having a mouthgasm over food he's made for her.

 _Fuck you Gale Hawthorne_ he thinks. _Fuck you Tony Waterford._

xxxxxxxxxx

A car arrives an hour later to take her to the train.

The two of them stand across from one another in his foyer.

He hands her his very favorite button-down. His medium gray blue one that matches his eyes. He hopes she'll sleep in it every night. He hopes Gale Hawthorne will show up unusually early one day and see her in it. He hopes he will immediately realize who's shirt she's wearing.

 _Mine_.

"I didn't…I didn't think of anything to give you," she says as she accepts it.

"It's ok."

"There's probably not anything of mine like this you love anyway."

He grins. "Well I love that little black robe but I'm pretty sure I'd rip it if I tried to put it on."

She narrows her eyes at him and then she smiles.

"What? You picturing me in that robe?"

She nods.

"You know I think your diamond necklace would look really good with it. Leave me that and your robe and I'll take a picture of myself and send it to you."

She bursts out laughing. Which was what he was aiming for.

And he loves the sound, but all of a sudden he's filled with something wild and desperate. It reminds him of the way he felt as he looked at his mother all those years ago when they came to take him to the Academy.

This time it's Cato who flings himself at Katniss. He snatches her up into his arms like a child and squeezes her to him as tightly as he can without breaking her. She squeezes back.

"It'll only be a couple months," she whispers.

He nods against her shoulder and then pulls back to look at her face. She puts her hand on his cheek and they study each other. And then she leans forward and kisses him, soft and tender.

"Good-bye," she whispers.

"Bye." He sets her down and watches her walk out.

With every step she takes it feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest. And when the front door closes behind her he's pretty sure his favorite shirt isn't the only thing of his she's taken with her.

xxxxxxxxxx

After she leaves, he goes to his living room and pulls up the footage of the tour. He'll just sit here for a while and watch, he decides. So he can keep looking at her. Maybe it'll feel like she hasn't left yet.

He's not surprised at the heavy editing of 11. They only show the crowd cheering for her and there's no trace of 12's traditional salute.

The footage continues for a couple more hours, as they show 10 through 3.

And then they show 2. This...this he doesn't want to see. So he lifts the remote to fast forward through it when all of a sudden the crowd erupts into wild cheers. His hand freezes on the remote.

What the hell?

They didn't cheer like that. They turned their backs. He knows. He was there. He watches as she gives her speech and they clap and whistle and look up at her in awe, with reverent smiles on their faces.

They show the line of the other Victors from 2, seated on one side of the stage. They're grinning with pride, laughing and making asides to each other, their eyes fixed toward the front of the podium, toward Katniss's back. The camera never lingers for long on them, but as they do a close up of Linus, the suit of the Victor sitting next to him catches Cato's eye. It's only part of a shoulder and an arm, there's no face on the screen, but Cato knows that gray suit. It's _his_ suit. Because that's _his_ shoulder and arm.

He rewinds the footage and each time they show the stage he looks for Alec, but he's not there.

Because on the day that footage was actually recorded, he was at the podium. It was his Victory tour.

Of course. The Capitol doctored the coverage of 2. They took snippets and leftover, unused video footage from Alec's victory tour and they threw Katniss's speech in there.

Cato had thought of 2's behavior to him and Katniss that day as an act of disrespect intended solely for the two of them. But now he realizes that whether or not they meant to, the people of 2 defied the president that day. And Snow can't have the whole of Panem witnessing 2's outright defiance.

There's a rustle and a footstep to his right. For a split second he thinks maybe it's Katniss and he's elated. Maybe she's come back because she can't stand to leave him and she's going to move in with him.

But it's not Katniss.

It's a group of Peacekeepers. Five of them.

"Hello Mr. Hadley," one of them says. "We need you to come with us."

 _What the fuck?_ He rises from the couch slowly. "Why?"

"It will be explained to you very soon."

This can't be good. He folds his arms. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me where I'm going and why."

"Sir, this is not an invitation."

"Fuck you." And he sits back down on his couch in defiance.

From his peripheral vision, he can see them glancing at one another as if trying to decide what to do, and then one of them raises his tranq gun.

Cato whips his head back toward them just as the dart hits him in the neck with a sting.

 _Oh fuck these assholes_. He's up and leaping over the side of the couch and he's got his hands around the throat of the Peacekeeper who just shot him.

He feels another sting in his neck. And another.

And then everything goes black.


	15. A Lot of Shit to Talk About

When Cato comes to a handful of hours later, he has a pounding headache and everything's fuzzy. He's strapped to a table by his wrists and ankles. He makes an effort to strain against the cuffs, but he's just so tired and he's never been this thirsty in his entire life. It's too much work and it's not really worth it, and maybe it would be nice to just slip back into darkness...

"He's starting to regain consciousness."

Is that Cinna's voice? What the fuck? Now he's a little more awake.

"Oh good, can we get him some water and food?"

 _Waterford?!_ Oh that little fucker. Cato is going to make sure then when he finally gets his hands on him, he dies a long, slow, excruciatingly painful death for all of this...this...whatever the hell this is that's going on right now.

"Yes, please bring a tray and a pitcher of water."

Plutarch Heavensbee?

Cato opens his eyes but it's too bright, so he squeezes them shut again.

"Kill the lights," Tony says. "They're hurting his eyes. Thanks. Hey man, wake up." Cato opens his eyes again. It's still bright, but it's not as bad, so he blinks a few times, and yep, that's Tony's face above him. "Wake up," he says again. "We've got a lot of shit to talk about."

Cato glowers at him. He opens his mouth to say _there'd better be a good explanation for this_ but it comes out so weak, Tony shakes his head. "I can't hear you man. Just focus on waking up for now. Sorry about this, but you didn't go down easy. They had to use _three_ darts on you. So...now the headache and the thirst."

Tony looks up at someone entering the room. "Just set it there, please." He looks back down at Cato. "We're gonna sit you up now and you gotta drink some water and eat ok?"

Cato nods. After all, if he's going to beat the shit out of all these assholes for tranqing him and tying him up, he'll need sustenance first.

"What if he tries to attack again?" an unfamiliar voice asks.

"He's too weak," says another. "Go ahead and let him out of those."

And then people Cato doesn't recognize-men as big as him-are undoing his restraints and he's being helped to a sitting position and he's handed a glass of water which he gratefully accepts and downs in one swallow.

Cinna, who's on the opposite side of him as Tony, refills it from the pitcher and Cato downs it again in one swallow.

"Just sip this next one, huh?" Cinna says as he pours Cato a third glass. "And eat something."

Cato eyes the tray with disgust. It's similar to the one they gave him after his surgery on his hand. Dry toast. Broth. Canned fruit. He's not really that hungry, but after Cinna tells him it'll help get the tranquilizers out of his system more quickly, he wolfs it down as quickly as he can in his weakened state.

By the time he's finished, he can feel his mind clearing and his body regaining its strength. So as he sips down more water, he glares at them. At Cinna and Tony and Plutarch Heavensbee, who is seated across from him. This is all so confusing. "There. I ate. I drank. Now tell me what the hell is going on."

It's Plutarch who explains it all.

Snow has bombed 2 and 11 simultaneously for their separate shows of defiance.

Well...he has _tried_ to bomb them.

His missiles and bombs have all been made in 3 by Waterford Technologies. And every single one of them is a dud. The only damage they've caused is to the roof or concrete they've smashed into.

Now the people of 2, including their Peacekeepers, are _pissed_.

The Peacekeepers in 11 tend to be more loyal to the Capitol, but the people of 11 are so riled up they're rioting again.

Over the last few decades, Snow has made the mistake of becoming complacent with his system of enforcement. Most Peacekeepers come from 2 and all of them train there. They all have buddies from their training days who now work in other districts, and many of them have access to phones and other inter-district communication systems. This means that Snow has not been able to keep the news of the failed bombings or 11's and 2's reactions to Katniss's speeches contained. In spite of the doctored coverage, the news has spread like wildfire among the Peacekeepers and, by extension, the people of the districts.

12, 8, 4 and 3 went up in rebellion a couple of hours ago as soon as they heard about 11 and 2, and 10, 9, 7, 6, and 5 are showing signs of following suit.

It just may be the most peaceful rebellion ever. Except for 11, which is already starting to calm down, there are no riots, because the Peacekeepers are refusing to take up arms against the people, not because they stand with those they oversee, but because they now stand against the Capitol.

And so several of the districts have simply sent messages to the president: _We are no longer under your governance._ The people are celebrating in the streets.

In the Capitol, it's utter chaos. Before this whole mentor/tribute switcharoo, loyalty to 2 and loyalty to the president were essentially the same thing. But now the Peacekeepers of the Capitol are separated along a bitter divide, and it's not pretty.

1 is the only district that has given no indication of rebellion.

District 13, Cato learns, still exists. It was never truly wiped out, but has been left to its own devices so long as it keeps to itself as part of a treaty with the Capitol. But they've been waiting for an opportunity to overthrow the president, and they've been in contact with a covert rebel network in Panem for years, it turns out. This network includes Heavensbee and quite a few of the people under him, Cinna, the late Mr. Waterford and Tony, Beetee Latier, and the mayor of 3.

As events began to unfold in the arena, it became apparent that the opportunity had arrived. Katniss, due to her sorrow over Rue's death and her compassion for Clove even as she took her life, has inspired the people. She has become a mascot of sorts. A symbol of inter-district unity. And Cato is amazed to hear that he, too, is considered inspirational.

Plutarch had begun to concoct a scheme along with Alma Coin, the leader of 13. The budding romance between Cato and Katniss was to be cultivated and nurtured to capture the hearts of both the Capitolites and the people of the districts.

"That's why I bought her," Tony breaks in at this point.

"I thought you said you couldn't stand to see her whored out," Cato says.

"And that's true. That's part of it. It would have been fucking disgusting to watch." Tony shudders. "But I also bought her so the two of you would be free to be with each other. So your relationship would develop and become public and people would get emotionally invested in the idea of the two of you. That and we figured you'd go apeshit if Snow did end up pimping her out, and we needed you sane."

This doesn't make any sense. "Who said she'd ever even give me the time of day?" Cato interjects. "You made this decision while she was still in the arena. She still hated me."

It's Cinna who pipes up now. "Yes, but with everything you did for her….And I could see how in love with her you were. I figured it was only a matter of time until she'd see it too, and I thought there was a good chance that eventually she'd start to reciprocate. Although it wasn't a guarantee."

Cato glares at his stylist. "So I'm guessing you're the one who told her all that shit about me keeping her secret and going to Tony for money and picking her over 2?"

"Oh come on Cato, she would have figured it all out anyway. She'd already realized some of it in the arena when you sent her that bow. I just...helped things along a little."

But Cato's still confused. "But why? What was the point of all of that? Of trying to make us a...a thing?"

Plutarch speaks up again. "I was in the process of convincing Snow to extend the Quarter Quell and give next year's games a twist too. To show that he has absolute authority and can do whatever he likes. That he's not bound by tradition. And the twist was going to be that all of the tributes would be reaped from previous Victors. To show that even they aren't untouchable. Katniss, of course, would be reaped. And we were going to find a way to make sure you were as well. So Panem would be forced to watch this heartbreaking setup where the two of you were pitted against each other."

Cato still doesn't understand. "I would have just protected her and then killed myself when it was down to the two of us."

"Well, yes, except you weren't ever going to enter the arena. Ideally, the announcement would push an already riled up Panem over the edge. They'd rebel and Snow would have to try to squash it, and in that already stressed state, 13 would attack. And Snow would be virtually defenseless, because his bombs were all useless."

"But I'm guessing that's not going to happen now?" Cato asks.

"No," Heavensbee says. "Because 2 did well...what 2 did. Which none of us anticipated. As soon as I found out about what happened at Katniss's speech in 2, I knew he'd attack and that all of this would happen much more quickly than we had planned. I was able to scramble and get one of my rebel Peacekeeping units in position to arrest Tony for treason as soon as Snow figured out the bombs were duds. And I had one for you as well, since I figured Snow's next step would be to take you prisoner as a symbol of the rebellion. So he could use you as a bargaining tool. As you can see, they've smuggled you here to 3, which is even better equipped both defensively and offensively than 13. This is the safest place to be."

This is all great, but there's a crucial piece of information missing. And it's really starting to bother Cato. Fear is beginning to creep up his spine. "And Katniss?" he asks.

Heavensbee, who was already quite serious, turns somber. "I also managed to finagle things so that a Peacekeeping unit in 12 would arrest Katniss and her family if Snow gave the order to have it done, but they'd smuggle them to 13 instead of 3 since it's only a few hundred miles to the north."

"Ok….?" His fear is starting to turn to panic. Why doesn't Plutarch just explicitly tell him she's safe in 13?

Heavensbee sighs and shakes his head. "I knew Snow would attack soon. But not _so_ soon. I thought I had a few days. But the bombings-if you can even call them that-took place this morning, not long after she left your house."

Cato, by his own admission, may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but as he looks at the clock on the wall, he can do the math. It's been seven hours since Katniss left his house, and it takes longer than that to reach 12 by train from the Capitol.

" _Where is she?_ " His voice is shaking from his effort to control his panic.

"We didn't realize the bombings had been carried out until after she had already boarded the train. I was able to get to you and Tony...but the Peacekeepers escorting her back to 12 weren't mine."

Cato is shaking so hard that he can't keep his grip on his water glass. It slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor.

"I'm so sorry," Plutarch says. "The train never even left the Capitol."


	16. Enough

**A/N:** **I really like the way Suzanne Collins writes about Katniss's breakdown and sedation at the end of Catching Fire, so I followed it closely in the first two parts of this chapter, and even word for word ("fuzzy, dull, aching misery") at one point.**

 **And Beetee's surveillance video trick is based off of Livingston Dell's in Ocean's Eleven.**

 **There. I've given credit where it's due.**

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato just sits there in shock at first as three concepts sink in.

She's been captured.

She may be dead.

If she's alive, she's going to be tortured.

And then the shock wears off and he is filled with so much rage and fear that his body can't contain it. He has to get out of here, he has to find her.

He's off the table and running for the door but it's locked. He kicks it and when that doesn't work, he throws his entire body into it. He beats on the heavy glass window in the top of it with his fists.

Those men as big as him from earlier, the ones that released him from his restraints, appear from the other side of the room, each grabbing a limb. He's furious and he's screaming her name and he gives them a run for their money, but his tranquilizers haven't worn all the way off yet, and eventually they manage to wrestle him back onto the table and strap him down.

There's a sharp sting in his arm as someone in a white coat jabs him with a needle, but he refuses to give up, and he slams his head against the table over and over again until they restrain that too, and then he just lays there and screams her name over and over again until his voice goes hoarse and then he weeps because the only person that matters to him is either dead or suffering and he just doesn't give a shit anymore about how men from 2 don't cry.

xxxxxxxxxx

This time they've given him a sedative instead of a drug that knocks him out and so he is not asleep, but trapped in a fuzzy, dull aching misery for hours that stretch into days. He can hear Cinna trying to talk to him, and Tony too, but all he can think about is Katniss and what they're doing to her. Are they beating her? Raping her? Have they cut out her tongue and turned her into an Avox?

"I hope she's dead," he whispers to Tony, who is sitting beside him with his hand on his arm. "I should have let her die in the arena. And then I should have drank myself to death like Brutus did. It would have been better than this."

Tony doesn't reply. He has realized by now that there's nothing he can say to comfort his friend.

xxxxxxxxxx

Four days later they allow his sedatives to wear off because they have something to show him.

It's a video of Katniss that was broadcast live to the nation a few hours ago.

She looks good. Too good, actually. Doll-like. Plasticky. There's not a hair out of place on her head. Her skin is unnaturally luminous.

She's wearing a light pink dress and a crown of matching rosebuds.

The Capitol seal is on the wall behind her.

She has a message for the people of Panem, she says. "The rumors you've heard about my speech in 11 and 2...they aren't true. What you saw on the coverage is exactly what happened. Please don't set me up as your heroine. I never meant for any of this to happen, it's not what I wanted. I just wanted to save my sister's life. This war will throw us all into chaos. So many people will be hurt or killed, so many people have _already_ been hurt and killed. None of us will win in the end. It's best if you just lay down your arms now before more lives are destroyed."

She sounds passionate and genuine as she lies about her tour and makes her plea for peace, but Cato picks up on something like panic behind her words. She looks like a little girl in that pink dress, dwarfed by the massive throne-like chair in which they've seated her. She's clearly terrified.

But she is alive. She appears uninjured. She doesn't look like she's suffering from thirst or hunger.

It is enough. Enough for hope to take root. Enough to keep Cato from beating his head against his table and his fists against the walls.

xxxxxxxxxx

They've convened to discuss the situation. Plutarch and Tony and Cato and some other people who are deemed important enough to be in on this seat themselves in a semicircle in a boardroom in the Justice Center and at the press of a button, a screen lowers from the ceiling and they're in a video conference with a room full of high-ranking officials in 13.

"What do you think the point of this is?" Alma Coin asks Heavensbee.

The gamemaker shrugs. "Make her look like a traitor maybe. Make her look weak. Demoralize the people of the districts. Get revenge on Cato for not staying in line."

 _Not staying in line?_ Cato doesn't understand. Technically he _did_ stay in line. He mentored her, just as the twist for the quarter quell stipulated he should.

"Well the demoralizing thing isn't working," Coin says. "So far we're hearing that the effect seems to be the opposite. Her appearance is riling people up rather than snuffing out their fire."

"Yes, Snow is completely out of touch," Plutarch confirms. "Over the last decade or so he's begun to vastly underestimate the districts. They're not stupid enough to believe Katniss is saying these things of her own free will. She's clearly under duress. But I think Snow's main reason for kidnapping her to use her as a bargaining tool. She's about all he's got to hold over our heads. My guess is that at some point he's going to try to negotiate with us for her life."

Alma Coin scoffs. "Surely he's not foolish enough to believe the people will agree to reinstate him as their leader in exchange for her."

"No, he knows better than that," Tony puts in. "He'll use her to try to get supplies from us. The Capitol depends entirely upon the districts for food and power and well, basically everything they need. They'll have power for a while, but food...that's a whole different story. They'll start feeling the effects of that within a couple of weeks. And Snow can't afford to send any of his soldiers out to the districts to try to take it for themselves. They've only just regained control of the Capitol, and they were only able to do that because most of the Peacekeepers in 1 came to their aid."

Coin leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest "So...what do we do?"

Cato is incredulous. The answer is so obvious. "What do you mean what do we do? You go in there now and attack and you get her the fuck out of there!"

It's the first he's spoken, and the entire room turns to look at him with exasperation.

"If we go in there like bats out of hell we may very well just get her killed," Plutarch explains. "This is delicate, Cato. We need to find out where she is first."

"What do you mean find out? Don't you know where Snow keeps prisoners?"

"I can make some educated guesses," the gamemaker replies. "But no, I don't know her exact location. And I'm sure security around her in incredibly tight."

Cato turns to Tony. "Didn't your people do the security system?"

"Parts of it, yes. But not all of it."

"Still!" Cato turns to Beetee now. "You can hack in and shut it all down."

Beetee eyes him with sympathy but shakes his head. "It's not that simple Cato. If we shut the entire computer system down they'll know something's up. Not an option if you wanna see her alive. It's gonna take time, but luckily we have some. Snow can't bargain with us if she's dead."

Plutarch turns to face the screen "You'll need to hold off on attacking."

Alma Coin does not look pleased, but she gives her assent. "Fine. But we won't wait forever. A couple of weeks, tops. That's what we'll give you."

"No, you need to give us more than that," Plutarch says with a note of warning in his voice. "The people of Panem will not be happy if you just march right on into the Capitol with no regard for her safety. They will not be inclined to accept you as their new president."

 _New president?_

Coin clenches her jaw. She seems to be acknowledging some kind of defeat. "Fine. So when can we go in?"

Plutarch glances at Cato. "After she's been rescued. Or killed."

xxxxxxxxxx

After the call ends, Cato catches Beetee and holds him back.

"What about surveillance cameras?" he asks the older victor. "Can't you hack in and find her that way?"

"I'm gonna start on it, but it's like looking for a needle in a haystack. Maybe not quite that bad, but it's tedious work and it takes time. It could take me weeks to find her that way. They're working on coming up with a plan. We're trying our best. I know this is excruciating for you and you want us in there this instant, but you're gonna need to just let this be enough for now. It's the best we can do."

xxxxxxxxxx

She appears again a little more than a week later. This time, she looks like she hasn't had a decent meal in days. They've made up her face, but the layers of foundation and blush can't hide her exhaustion or the grayish pallor of her skin.

Her words aren't much different than the first appearance, but this time she sounds more desperate, more urgent. Her voice catches in her throat several times. Her eyes are red from crying. There's a note of despair that wasn't there before.

"Do something!" he demands to everyone and no one in particular. "You have to do something! They're not feeding her and I don't know what they're doing, but whatever it is, it's worse than it was before!"

They have a plan, Heavensbee reassures him, and they're already working on it. The problem, the gamemaker explains, is that it will take time, and things may get worse before they get better.

This is not comforting. Cato paces back and forth like a caged animal. "Make it stop," he spits out. "Call off this stupid fucking rebellion! What the fuck is it even accomplishing?!"

"Call it off? Cato, even if I wanted to call it off, I couldn't. You think the districts will just go 'well, ok, sure, we'll go back under Snow's iron fist because you said so?' And let's say they do. Do you think she won't suffer? No, she'll suffer for the rest of her life. She'll be sold and used and heavily guarded and her family will be under constant threat, or even harmed. In which case it would be better if she were dead, would it not?"

Cato sinks into a chair in defeat. Plutarch's right. They've either got to rescue her or she'll have to die at Snow's hands. There's no other option if her suffering is to end.

He feels Plutarch's hand on his shoulder. "We're making progress on our plan Cato. It's starting to come together. We'll tell you about it when it's more concrete. Ok?"

Cato nods. It's not much but it's something. It's all he's got to hold onto right now. And so it will have to be enough.

xxxxxxxxxx

The third broadcast of Katniss takes place a week later. She's even thinner now, thinner, in fact, than she was at the end of her games. She's sickly looking and roughed up, she's got a huge bruise on her cheek. She has a crazy look in her eyes (one of which is completely bloodshot), as though she's not all there.

Her words are almost identical to those from her first two appearances; she's begging for a cease-fire and insisting she never meant for this to happen and that things will be better if the rebels return to Snow's fold. She's frantic this time and she's literally tearing at her hair.

She makes another request: that the districts reopen the transportation lines into the Capitol and send supplies as usual. She talks about how soon the innocent children of the Capitol will begin to suffer from hunger pains.

This draws a series of snorts and scoffs from the others in the room, but not from Cato. He feels helpless, he's distressed, his insides are on fire. He can't sit still so he's on his feet and pacing.

"Well, there's the negotiation for supplies we talked about," Cinna says when the broadcast is over and they've pulled Coin up for a video chat.

"Absolutely not. Don't give in," Coin says. "Choke him out."

Everyone in the room is in agreement, but Cato is freaking out. What will Snow do to Katniss if he doesn't get what he wants?

'NO!" he roars. He grabs Plutarch by his stupid collar and hauls him to his feet. "You make them send shit to the Capitol now!" he screams into the gamemaker's face.

Their response to his tantrum is to tranq him again.

xxxxxxxxxx

When he regains consciousness, he gulps down half of the pitcher of water they've left by his cot and stumbles down the hall into the boardroom.

Beetee and Plutarch are on a video conference with…. _Gloss?_

Cato shakes himself and rubs his fists into his eyes. Maybe he's still fucked up from the tranquilizers.

But that's definitely Gloss's face he sees. And Gloss's voice he hears.

"Pale, reddish skin," he's saying. "Wart-like thing on his nose. Watery light blue eyes. Probably in his forties. Medium height. Maybe five-ten or so. Medium build. Probably weighs one seventy."

Beetee appears to be writing all of this down. "Got it. We'll do a search and call you back with pictures."

"What's going on?" Cato asks when they hang up.

Plutarch turns and eyes him warily. The guards in the room tighten their fingers around their tranq guns.

"Nothing...just...Cato, it's going well," Beetee answers. He seems irritated at the interruption. "We're making significant progress. Stay out of our way for now ok?"

"But what does Gloss have to do with any of it?"

"He's figured out her location. He's been working to try to get in to see her for a couple of weeks and he finally succeeded. We'll tell you more later. Ok? Please? I want to get back to work on this immediately."

The hope that pierces Cato's heart is almost violent. "Yeah." He nods. "Ok." He turns and leaves the other men to it.

It's enough for the time being.

xxxxxxxxxx

Six days later the Capitol broadcasts her again.

She looks like she's dying. She's emaciated. Her lips are cracked and bleeding. Her left eye is still red. Her face is beat to shit. She's sobbing so hard her words are almost unintelligible.

"Please!" she wails. "Ple-ea-ea-se!"

That's all any of them can make out.

Cato can't handle it. He throws anything he can get his hands on. But it's not enough, nothing's enough, so he picks up a glass and squeezes it until it shatters and the shards embed themselves in his flesh. And yet he feels nothing. No pain. He reaches for another glass. Maybe this one will be enough.

But it's not enough, it's not enough. Nothing's enough.

"ENOUGH! NO MORE!" he cries, half-screaming, half-sobbing. "NO MO-O-ORE! ENOUGH!"

He lifts his hands to his head and rakes them through his scalp as he tears at his hair, leaving cuts from the glass shards in his palms in his wake.

He doesn't even fight them when they come at him with their tranq guns.

xxxxxxxxxx

He feels himself start to come to, and then they stick a needle in his arm.

They've sedated him again. He lays there in his fog of misery for what feels like weeks.

"We gave in a little bit," Cinna whispers to him. "We sent some shipments of food in. We think it will make them back off of her for a bit. We're almost ready Cato." Cinna squeezes his forearm. "We're almost ready to carry out her rescue."

xxxxxxxxxx

When they let his sedatives wear off, Cato learns he's been drugged for the past three days.

They tell him she's alive and that the attempt to rescue her will be made tonight. They sit him down in a big cushy chair and they make him eat and drink and then they leave him alone with Cinna and Tony and some guards.

"We've decided it's time to tell you the plan," Tony says.

"Ok…"

But Tony just sits there, picking nervously at his cuticles.

"You gotta tell him," Cinna finally says. "It's too much a part of the plan to keep it from him. And he'll find out eventually anyway."

"Find out what?" Cato asks slowly. This doesn't sound good.

Tony takes a deep breath. "What I bought Katniss to save her from...over the last few weeks it's happened anyway."

"No," Cato whispers. "No."

"I'm so sorry. She's been used like Finnick. And Gloss. And Cashmere."

The guards raise their tranq guns and aim them at Cato, ready to fire any second.

But he doesn't move except to bow his head. He just sits there and he pictures his Katniss, his little tornado, so strong and beautiful and proud, laid out on her stomach and stripped naked as those disgusting pigs rape her. He imagines her fear. He wonders how badly it hurt.

It's too much for his soul to bear.

He doesn't yell. He doesn't break things. He doesn't try to harm himself or anyone else.

He's broken. Snow has broken him.

"Cato listen to me," Cinna says. "I'm about to say something that will sound crazy but hear me out. Let me explain. This whole rape situation just might be the thing that saves her life."

Cato lifts his head. "Are you _insane_?"

Cinna waves his hands. "It's how Gloss got in to see her. He claimed he wanted to rape her as revenge for Glimmer, and since he's such a seemingly loyal Victor, Snow said yes. Katniss was being held deep in the basement of one of the Peacekeepers' administrative buildings. But these men who wanted her...they didn't want her in a torture chamber or a holding cell. So they brought her to Pratt's every time she had a...an appointment."

Cato knows what Pratt's is. He's been there many times. You could call him a regular, in fact. It's often described as a gentlemen's club, but the assholes who frequent it (including him), are anything but gentle. Their wives think they go there to golf and play pool and use the sauna and smoke cigars and they do...but they also go there to use one of the many private bedrooms with their mistresses or the whores they invite to spend the evening with them.

Cinna explains that since all of the men interested in Katniss, including Gloss, are members of Pratt's, Snow has set aside a room especially for her and her clients and had cameras installed in the public areas of the club. Each time she has an appointment, a team of Peacekeepers escorts her to Pratt's while another team monitors her route remotely via a tracker in her arm and video surveillance from the second she leaves her cell until she is deposited in the room at the club.

Gloss has been trying to get a good look at the faces of the Peacekeepers escorting her, but he's had no luck until just after Katniss's third broadcast, when he was granted an appointment with her for being such a loyal victor. But he pretended to be too drunk to get it up. In the midst of his supposed drunken stumblings, he got close enough to the Peacekeepers to get a good view of two of their faces, and those were the men he described to Beetee.

Beetee has hacked into the Peacekeeper profiles in the Capitol database and he found one of them based on his unique physical description. From there, he hacked into their shift records and was able to find the names of the other guards who would have been with him at the time of Gloss's appointment. He then shared photos of all of them with Gloss, who positively identified the two he had seen at the club that night.

Gloss then blackmailed all five of the members of the team. He showed them photos of their children and parents and siblings and talked about the satellite surveillance that 3 now has trained on their families. He talked about the tiny and sophisticated drones that can hone in on their loved ones and explode in their faces. He informed them that their family members' electronic devices have been hacked, and therefore, the rebels will know if they try to warn them. He made sure they understand that if Katniss Everdeen dies or suddenly goes missing, there will be nasty consequences. He explained the part that they must play in Katniss's escape if they want to save their families. He pointed out the futility of siding with the Capitol, since 3 is poised to attack both 1 and the Capitol with bombs that actually work. He ensured their safety, and that of those close to them, if they cooperate. And then he got all of the information out of them that the rescue team needs.

This evening she has another appointment with a rich pig named Garantius. If everything goes according to plan, here's what will happen:

Garantius will be drugged just before Katniss arrives and will pass out almost immediately in the room. Beetee has hacked into that particular surveillance system and will play a continuous loop of pre-recorded video of the empty hallway and entrance to Pratt's, rather than the live footage so that the Peacekeeping team overseeing her journey via camera will have no idea what her real movements are.

Katniss, who has absolutely no knowledge of this plan, will then have her tracker cut out of her arm by the blackmailed Peacekeepers and be smuggled out under cover of the fake footage, right into Garantius's car. The driver will be held hostage and will drive her to another location where she will switch vehicles and be transferred into the custody of rebel insiders in the Capitol. She will then be taken to the outskirts and into the woods and picked up by a stealth plane and brought to the hospital in 3.

The blackmailed Peacekeepers will also be brought to 3 to ensure their safety.

As soon as Katniss is in the air, 13 will attack the Capitol.

It's a good plan but it's still risky, because after about an hour, the team of Peacekeepers monitoring the surveillance footage will become suspicious and will soon figure out that she's not in that room. In theory, Katniss will be long gone by then, but if there are any hiccups and Snow's men think to look back at the route Garantius's car has taken, they may catch up with her.

Still, it's a solid plan, Cato thinks.

Solid enough.

xxxxxxxxxx

It is the longest evening of Cato's life.

It's funny, he thinks, how the shortest and longest spans of his life have revolved around Katniss. When he's with her and everything is good, time moves much too quickly. But when she's in danger, the minutes and hours crawl by with an agonizing slowness.

It is 7:30pm and she is supposed to be safely deposited at the hospital by 11:30pm.

Four fucking hours.

Cato spends them in the hallway outside of the hospital room they've got ready and waiting for her. He passes most of the time by drawing intricate patterns on pieces of paper he's managed to snag from Beetee, but after a while Tony sits down beside him.

"You doing ok man?" he asks.

"No. I'm useless," Cato replies.

"Useless?"

"Look at you and Beetee and Plutarch and all these other people going in to rescue her. You're all so smart. I'm too fucking dumb to be included on the plan."

"Cato, I don't think anyone meant to imply-"

"I'm not mad about it. They're right. I'm worthless to her. I can't protect her."

"What do you mean you can't protect her? You're the reason she came out of that arena alive."

Cato sniffs. "Barely. Her shoulder...the fire...Nah, I'm not good enough for her. _You've_ done more to save her than I have. She's crazy for not wanting you."

"I saved her because of her popularity. Because of how valuable she is to the revolution. And for herself too, yes, because I didn't want her to suffer. I don't want any humans to suffer." Tony shudders. "But I'm not like you. Your entire reason for trying to save her was because you love her. Some people might argue, but I'd say you're purer than me in that respect. You value her simply for herself and the way she makes you feel. Not for what she can do for a cause you're invested in. And you sacrificed way more for her than I did. So don't sell yourself short."

Cato is silent for few minutes as he drinks in Tony's words.

"I just want this to end," he finally says. "One way or the other. I want her safe or dead. I can't handle this limbo shit."

"I'm sorry. I've never loved anyone like you love her. I can't even imagine what this must be like. God, you know sometimes I still can't believe that _you_ -this guy I once thought was a complete and total sociopath-are in love. And not just in love but with Katniss Everdeen. She would have been about the last girl I ever would have pictured you with. At least when I compare her to the girls you always pick to fuck. Of course now that I know you better, I can see that you need a woman who's as strong as you but warms you up and thaws you out at the same time. So now I think it makes perfect sense that you fell for her."

Cato's never thought about it that way, but as soon as the words are out of Tony's mouth it makes sense to him too.

He's quiet for a few more minutes and Tony just sits there with him in silence, watching him work.

And then something occurs to Cato. "If you hate to see people suffer why did you and your dad make weapons for Peacekeepers?"

Tony closes his eyes and swallows. He looks horribly guilty. "We didn't want to, but we knew we had to gain Snow's trust somehow. Call it a means to an end. Call it breaking some eggs to make an omelet. It's what we thought we had to do. I'm not proud of it. And neither was Dad."

But Cato thinks he understands. "I get it," he says. "And I get why you bought Katniss. It all makes sense. But there's one thing I can't figure out. Why did you hang out with me those months between her games and her tour? How did that fit in with the plan?"

Tony gives him a funny look. "It didn't fit in with the plan. It didn't have anything to do with it."

Cato's confused. He furrows his eyebrows.

Tony laughs. "Can't I just hang out with you because I genuinely like to and I think of you as my friend? Isn't that enough?"

But Cato never answers because the hallway doors fly open and a man in an olive green jumpsuit comes running through them with Katniss in his arms.


	17. Violence Is My Craft, You See

She's been starved, dehydrated, deprived of sleep and beaten. She has broken ribs and a punctured lung. None of her wounds have been properly cared for, and so she's starting to show signs of infection. For the doctors, the most imminent concern, however, is circulatory shock.

She's barely conscious. She's been that way for the last few days according to one of her rescuers. "The leader of that Peacekeeping escort of hers told me," he says. "He said they've had to carry her in and out. She couldn't even walk on her own she's so weak."

"And people wanted to have sex with her?!" Cinna asks in disbelief.

"There are some pretty sick fucks out there," Tony says. "You wouldn't believe the dirt I have on some of these guys."

Cato paces outside of the room they rushed her to until a man in scrubs who introduces himself as Dr. Jefferson comes out to give him an update a couple of hours later. He uses a lot of words, but Cato just focuses on retaining the ones that really matter. Fluids. Blood transfusion. Antibiotics. Chest tube.

They've got every reason to believe she'll be fine, although her heart is weak.

"You should get some rest," the doctor says. "There's really nothing you can do."

"I wanna see her."

"Absolutely not. You'll be in the way."

Well, he's not gonna argue with that.

Tony takes hold of his elbow to lead him away. "Come on man, let's go have a drink and then get you to bed. It's almost 2."

xxxxxxxxxx

The next morning he returns to pacing outside of her room.

"None of it broke her," Plutarch says from behind him.

Cato turns to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"The beatings, the rape...that's not why she begged and sobbed on camera. I take it you know what jabber jays are?"

Cato knows all about jabber jays. As a career he studied the history of the games and all of the creative atrocities that have been engineered and deployed by the gamemakers over the past seventy-five years. Jabber jays, he knows, mimic voices. "I know what they are. What did they do to her?"

"Well, they didn't use actual jabber jays, they used some kind of computer program. But the same idea. Got ahold of your voice. And her mom's and her sister's and Gale Hawthorne's. They made her think you were in the next room being tortured and then killed, one at a time. That first television appearance...what she was actually begging for was her mother's life. When she didn't do a good enough job, they made her think they'd killed her. They made her listen to the screams and showed her a picture, fake of course, of her mother's dead body. The second time she was begging for Hawthorne's life. The third, yours. By the time she was onto the fourth appearance she was pleading for her sister. She'd basically gone insane. Those Peacekeepers, they think she had no idea what was happening to her these last three days because of her mental and physical state."

"So does she think we're all dead?"

"Yes. They told her it was her fault. For what she did with Rue and for what happened in 2 and 11. And for not being convincing enough each time she called for a cease fire."

"Fuuuck," Cato sighs. The guilt over their death and their suffering, he knows, is the worst kind of torture for Katniss. Worse than any physical pain or discomfort anyone could ever inflict on her.

But it will be ok. Because as soon as she's stable they'll tell her that they're all alive and well.

xxxxxxxxxx

For six agonizing days they deny his requests to see her, even though by now they've removed the chest tube and taken her off of her sedatives.

"Why not?" he demands.

Dr. Jefferson looks concerned. "Her heartbeat is still very weak. It's actually been getting steadily weaker the past few days. Everything else is good. The infection, the lung...but that heart. We're really starting to worry she won't pull through. If she finds out you're alive and well, the emotion brought on by it could put too much stress on her heart and kill her."

"You haven't told her I'm alive?!" He's practically screaming. "What about her sister and her mom and that Gale guy?!"

"No. We haven't told her about any of you."

Cato curls his lip in disgust. These idiots. Don't they understand? Why would she even _try_ to live after everything that's happened to her if she thinks they're all dead?

He knows exactly what to do to fix her dying heart.

He marches past the doctor and into her room.

"Mr. Had-" The sound is cut off by the door slamming closed behind him.

"Katniss," he says, his hand on her hip. He presses down gently. "Katniss, wake up."

She opens her bruised eyes and blinks slowly. She squints at him as though she's trying to focus on his face, and then her eyes go wide. Her heart rate picks up. The monitor sounds a warning.

She opens her mouth. _Cato?_ But no sound comes out.

"I'm alive," he says. "It was a trick that the Capitol played on you. I was never captured. And your mom and your sister and your friend Gale...they're all safe and alive in 13."

"13?" she whispers, her voice hoarse. "What are you talking about? This is a dream, right? It has to be." Her face takes on a look of misery. "You're dead. You're all dead." It would be a wail if her voice wasn't so weak.

He reaches out and pinches her upper arm hard enough to leave a bruise. She hisses through her teeth and flinches. "Not a dream," he says, and her heart rate skyrockets.

The doctor bursts through the door with a team of nurses. "Out!" he demands.

"And think about it," he says hurriedly as they swarm him and start tugging at his clothing and his arms. "They never showed you our actual dead bodies. Just photos."

"Out!" the nurses all shout at once as they nudge him toward the door.

"Alright, alright." But he breaks away and leans down and plants a kiss on Katniss's forehead first.

"When you think this is a dream, just look at your arm!" he calls over his shoulder as they push him out of the room.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Well we got her heart rate back down," Dr. Jefferson says a couple of hours later, his arms crossed over his chest as he glares at Cato.

"And let me guess, now it's beating strong and steady?"

When the doctor scowls in answer, Cato gives him a smug smirk.

"You could have killed her," Dr. Jefferson shoots as a last defense.

Cato shrugs. "Better for her to burn out fast than to lay there in misery and die slowly cuz she's got no will to live."

"Excuse me," an orderly cuts in. "I'm sorry to interrupt but Miss Everdeen is begging to see you."

This time no one tries to stop him.

xxxxxxxxxx

Her eyes fill with tears at the sight of him.

"You're not dreaming," he says.

"I know." She looks down at her bicep. Her new bruise is blooming pink and red. "What happened?"

"I'll tell you. But first..first I need to do this." And he leans down and kisses her on the mouth, a hand on either side of her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. It takes all of his self-control to keep things gentle because he wants to kiss her as hard as he can, as though that will somehow do more to reassure them both that the other is alive and solid and warm.

She sighs and digs her fingers into his forearms to pull him closer. He gives her a few more kisses and then he settles into a chair next to her and he explains how Snow lied to her about the status of the war and led her to believe that the districts were being bombed and that the people were suffering. About 13 and how it still exists. About Tony's dud bombs. About the jabber jay technique, and how Snow's people got hold of samples of her loved ones' voices and then used sophisticated programming to mimic them.

"And the whole time you were here," she says, as if she still can't quite believe it. "Alive and well."

"Alive, yes. But well. No."

xxxxxxxxxx

She improves rapidly now that she knows the truth, though she's still on bed rest so her lung can heal. They let her facetime her family every day and Cato spends hours and hours with her. He draws pictures and she colors them in with a set of pencils that Tony has found.

"Do you want to put them in rainbow order?" she asks Cato teasingly when Tony hands her the box.

Cato rolls his eyes. "There's only fourteen colors."

"It's the best I could do!" Tony protests.

"That's not what I meant," Cato reassures him. "She's just getting smart with me, that's all. She thinks she's clever. These are fine."

xxxxxxxxx

It's been a couple of weeks since her rescue. The bruises on her face are fading. Her family is coming to visit in two days.

But she hasn't said one word about her experience in captivity and it's starting to bother Cato.

"Are you ok?" he asks her.

She frowns. "What do you mean am I ok? You can see for yourself. You've heard the doctors. Of course I'm ok. I'll be off bed rest next month."

"That's not what I meant. I meant...what happened to you in there. What they did to you."

Her body grows tense. "I've been hungry before. And I've had injuries too. It wasn't all that different than my games."

"No one raped you during your games."

There. He said it.

But he's crossed some kind of line. Her features turn to stone. Her eyes go cold. "I'm fine."

"Katniss…"

"There's nothing to talk about," she snaps. "It's over. It's done with. I'm fine." She turns her face away from him. "I'm tired. Can you just leave me alone now?"

"Katniss…"

"Stop! I don't make you talk about shit you don't want to talk about do I? Like your training or your tour?"

She's got a point. And maybe he shouldn't have brought it up. Maybe it's too soon. Maybe she's not ready. Maybe this is her way of coping right now. Maybe he should just let her body heal itself before he starts worrying about her heart and her soul and her mind. And in the end, maybe she should be the one to decide if and when and to whom she wants to tell her story.

He of all people should know better.

xxxxxxxxxx

She's cold to him for the rest of that day and the entirety of the next.

But late that second night, he's awoken by an orderly knocking on the door to the room they've let him have down the hall.

"She had some kind of nightmare," the young man tells him. "We woke her, but she keeps screaming for you."

He's already halfway to her room.

She's sitting up in her bed and she's sobbing.

"I'm here, I'm here," he soothes, perching on the edge of the mattress and taking her in his arms.

"They set you on fire," she wails. "You were screaming. I could smell you burning. They brought me your hand and it was all black and charred and it was still smoking and they threw it in my face!"

"Shh, shh, shh." He strokes her hair. "They didn't set me on fire. I'm right here."

 _Jesus_ _christ_. Did they really do that to her? They were his screams she heard, he's sure, no doubt produced by a sound engineer. But whose _hand_ would that have been? Probably some poor Avox.

Even after he calms her, she won't lay back down, she won't let go of him. But she needs to rest and her bed isn't big enough for the two of them. So he pulls up a chair and he falls asleep hunched over with his head next to hers on the thin mattress.

His back is stiff as hell the next morning.

But that's alright, he doesn't mind.

Because he'd do anything for her. He'd light himself on fire if it would make her happy.

He knows better than to say that out loud though.

xxxxxxxxxx

He stays out of the way when her mom and Prim and Gale arrive, but he can hear the muffled tears from the hallway.

So much emotion over the last couple of months. His and hers and now her family's. The air is heavy with it. Cato feels stifled. He can't breathe.

"It's exhausting isn't it?" Beetee says. "Being someone's rock."

"She's worth it," he protests.

"She is, yes. But you still need a break every now and then."

"She hasn't had a break since she was eleven," Cato points out.

"And she's suffered for it."

Beetee's right and Cato knows it. "Come on," the older man says. "Come for a hike with me."

Cato shoots a worried glance at the door to her room.

"Take care of yourself so you can take care of her. She won't begrudge you for it."

It's enough to convince him.

Beetee takes him on a ten-mile trail and they're gone for half the day.

They're not even twenty minutes into it and Cato already feels a hundred times better. The air is clear and fresh and cold. The cloudless sky is a rich, saturated blue against the dark pine boughs and the muted gray crags with their snowy peaks. He breathes deep and lifts his face to the sun and he feels as though a huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

"She'd love this," he says to Beetee.

"So bring her out here once she's off bed rest."

And that's all they say for a while. Cato doesn't know his companion well at all, but he's decided that he likes him. Beetee's clearly a man who respects other people's need for silence.

He lets his mind wander along with his feet for a few miles. He wonders if Italy has mountains like this. Or is it more like 5? Well, no, he saw the map. It's on the sea, so it's probably more like 4. But they make leather shoes, so they must have cows and…

"Where does cashmere come from?" he asks.

"Huh?"

"Like is it a plant like cotton or does it come from an animal or…?"

"It's from a goat," Beetee says.

Cato wrinkles his nose. So Italy has cows and goats. It's probably like 10 then, and 10 smells like animal dung. Maybe he _doesn't_ want to go to Italy.

"You ever hear of a place called Italy?"

"Yeah. It's in Europe."

"How do you know about it?"

"I'm from 3. We're the most educated district. And we're rebels. How do _you_ know about it?"

"I found a book with all these maps in Brutus's place in Victor's Row. After he died. Well, and also I had heard about it before that. You know, I guess a lot of expensive stuff is shipped to the Capitol from there. Anyway, do you know anything about it?"

"A little. But Plutarch could tell you more. He's been there."

"He's _been_ there?!"

"Yeah. He's been a lot of places. Gamemakers get to-well, got to-do things we ordinary folk don't even know about. I guess the food is wonderful. And they have really old beautiful buildings."

They take a break halfway through and Beetee tosses him a bottle of water and a sandwich from his pack. They eat in silence and watch as a lone bald eagle makes lazy circles through the sky above.

"You know anything about what's going on with the war?"

Beetee scoffs. "What war? It's just a takeover. Snow's in hiding and they're trying to ferret him out. But other than that...I mean 13 has control of the Capitol now. Alma Coin will be declared the president of Panem any day now. 1 surrendered. The rest of the districts are doing their thing. It's over really."

"What are they gonna do with Snow when they find him?"

"Put him on trial. It'll really just be for show though. He'll be executed no matter what."

"Will they let me torture him first? And all of those pigs he sold Katniss to?"

Beetee smiles, but when he sees Cato's face he realizes he means it. "Cato, don't be like them. Be better than them."

"But I'm not better than them. Not really."

"Yes you are."

Cato lets out a bitter bark of laugh. "Ha! You must not know much about what goes on at the Academy then."

"No...I don't actually, although I have some ideas. What _does_ go on there?"

But Cato just shakes his head. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Well whatever it is," Beetee says, "something tells me you're still better than them."

xxxxxxxxxx

When they return, Gale is storming out of her room. Cato steps back to let him pass.

He glances toward Katniss's door and chews on his lip as he tries to decide whether or not to go in and find out what happened.

And then Plutarch emerges, shaking his head and sighing.

"What's going on?" Cato asks.

"They found Snow late last night and arrested him. President Coin and I are planning a celebration in the Capitol. Surrounding his trial. We're going to televise it so everyone in Panem can watch, and we'd like you and Katniss to be there."

"Jesus, can you just let her heal up first? For fuck's sake!"

"Of course. We'll wait until the doctors clear her."

"And if she doesn't want to go?"

Plutarch sighs. "That's just it. She's refusing to testify against Snow and the others who've committed crimes against her. We'd like to interview her as well. You know, for tv, for the citizens of Panem. She doesn't want to to do that either."

Cato shrugs. Makes sense. She doesn't want to deal with it. She doesn't want to be dragged through it again. "So hold the trials without her. You've got enough information. You don't need her."

"You don't understand...she's a _symbol_. You both are. Your presence at this thing is vital."

"She's not the reason this all happened."

"No, but she was one of the catalysts."

"Leave her the fuck alone for now," Cato says. "You understand? You want me there, fine. I'll do the stupid interview. I'll sit there in the audience for the trial and you can put my face on tv. But you leave her out of it."

"People want to see both of you. Together."

"This isn't up for discussion right now. Not while she's still so weak. And what was with Hawthorne?"

"He thinks she should testify and do the interview. When she refused he accused her of burying her head in the sand. He's a very passionate young man, that one. Wants to see them all tortured and executed. Snow. The Peacekeepers who guarded her. The men who raped her. The gamemakers. Well, besides me, of course. He went on and on. Told her he couldn't understand why she's not all worked up about it. He badgered her, honestly. She finally flipped and yelled at him to get out. And of course, it's not good for her to get so upset given her condition, so the doctor insisted that he leave."

Cato shakes his head. "I thought he was her best friend. Why can't he understand that all of this-this trial and shit-will just re-traumatize her? Why can't _you_ understand that?"

"I _do_ understand Cato. But Coin is insisting...I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place here. I don't quite know how to explain it. Do you understand?"

"No. Not at all."

Plutarch sighs. "Well, for now we'll table the discussion like you said. Until she's better. But I have to say, I can't believe how calm you are about what happened to her now that she's safe. I would have thought you'd be practically rabid over it."

"Oh I am. Trust me. And if you find those pigs who raped her and you unleash me on them…" Cato shivers with pleasure at the thought of what he'd do to all of them, and he gives Plutarch a grim smile. "Violence is my craft, you see. And they'll be my masterpiece."

xxxxxxxxxx

"You here to tell me I should testify too?" she asks sullenly when he enters her room.

He takes the seat by her bed. "No. I'm not here to tell you anything."

"Gale wants to see them all tortured."

"I heard. And you don't?" His tone is neutral. It holds no judgement.

"If he wants to see them tortured, then fine. But I just want to forget it ever happened," she whispers. "I don't wanna think about it."

He reaches out and takes her hand in his with a gentle squeeze. They sit in silence for a few minutes before she speaks again. "Why aren't you trying to convince me like he is? I would have thought you'd feel the same way."

Cato closes his eyes and he pictures her being tortured and used. He feels a wave of rage wash through him, but he catches it and stores it deep down in his gut and he fantasizes about what he'd like to do them. He's practically salivating over it. And then he opens his eyes and looks right into hers. His voice is quiet and calm and controlled. "I _do_ feel the same way. I want to cut their fingers off one by one. And their toes. I want to cut their tongues out. And their eyes. I want to beat them until their ribs break and puncture their lungs. I want to light them on fire. I want to bend them all over and shove spears so far up their asses they come out of their mouths. And if I get the chance, believe me, I will. I'm just as enraged as Gale. But my anger...it's colder than his."

She studies him intently. "And you think I should do what they're asking me to?"

"No. Fuck everybody else. Do what you want."

"And you..."

"And I'll do what I want. If they'll let me."

xxxxxxxxxx

That night her sister crawls into bed with her.

Cato smiles. "Kind of crowded, don't you think?"

"We're used to it," Katniss says. "We've always slept in the same bed. Well, up until we moved to Victor's Village."

Cato has hardly spoken a word to Prim, who looks up at him with big, curious blue eyes. But he likes her. She reminds him of a still pond, calm and cool and quiet, and her presence has a soothing effect on Katniss.

A few hours later, though, he hears a soft tap on his door, and he opens it to find a teary-eyed Prim. "I think she had a nightmare. I got my mom and Gale and we tried to calm her down, but it's not working."

It's the same as the last time: she's sitting up and sobbing.

"I'm here, I'm here," he murmurs as he encases her in his arms. "I got you. No one's gonna hurt you. No one's gonna hurt your family."

She clutches his shoulders and buries her face in his neck and as he rocks her back and forth, his lips on her temple, she starts to calm down. "Stay with me," she begs after a few minutes.

"But your sister's here and I don't want to take away from your time with her."

His refusal brings on a fresh round of tears. "But I miss sleeping with you!" she wails. It's so pitiful it breaks Cato's heart. "I rolled over after I woke up to try to find you so you could hold me but you weren't here! And none of the blankets smell like you!"

"I know baby I know. I miss sleeping in the same bed too. Once they let you out of here, ok? Just a few more weeks. And in the meantime, here." He shrugs out of his hoodie and helps her into it, and then he zips it up and adjusts it around her neck. "Smell like me?"

She nods and wipes her snotty nose on the sleeve.

He smiles. His hoodie is huge on her. She's practically swimming in it. He takes her face in his hands and kisses each eye, swiping his tongue across her lashes to clean the salt from them. "Ready to lay back down?"

She sniffles. "Yeah."

He helps her get comfortable and he pulls the covers up to her chest. "I'll get your sister," he says.

But when he turns around, they're all in the doorway. Her mother. Her sister. And Gale Hawthorne.

And from the looks on their faces, he can tell that they've just witnessed everything.

Well...this is awkward.

He clears his throat. "Ummm...I think...if you wanna lay back down," he says to Prim. "I think she's ok now."

The little girl's blue eyes are wide as saucers on his face.

Mrs. Everdeen is studying him shrewdly.

Hawthorne is staring intently at the ground, his fists clenched so tightly they're shaking.

"Good night," he mutters. And then he makes his escape.

When he's halfway down the hall, he sighs with relief.

And then.

"You don't know her like I do," Gale says from behind him. His voice is loaded with hostility.

Cato pivots around to face him and for one nasty second, he considers engaging in a pissing contest. _Oh really now? And has she told you about the lake where her father taught her to swim? Have you ever tasted her tears? Are you as familiar with the feel of her in your arms as I am?_

But he remembers that day at the start of the tour when he locked eyes with Gale and backed down. He knows what it feels like to watch the woman you love melt into the arms of another man.

And Gale Hawthorne isn't wrong. Cato _doesn't_ know Katniss like he does. He's never seen her on her home turf, roaming through the woods. He doesn't understand true hunger, he's never experienced it. He's lost Brutus and his biological father may as well be dead, but he's not so arrogant as to think he can relate to her as deeply on that score, since Gale's father was killed in the same mining accident that took Mr. Everdeen's life.

So Cato just gives his rival a long, sad look, and he musters up the gentlest tone he's capable of. "You're right. I don't. And I never will."


	18. Die a Happy Man

**A/N: Just a warning that this is a heavy one. Trigger warning: I didn't go into too much detail regarding rape/abuse/torture, but just to be on the safe side...those topics are def a part of this chapter.**

 **xxxxxxxxxx**

Her family leaves a few days later. The war is officially over and as one of the few District 12 healers, Mrs. Everdeen needs to get back because there are people who depend on her treatments. Gale, too, has people who depend on him: a pack of younger brothers and sisters to feed and look after.

Once they're gone, Katniss falls into a backslide. Her appetite disappears and she loses the pounds she'd put on. She sleeps for hours on end and yet still she seems eternally exhausted. She doesn't color anymore and she doesn't smile.

The physicians puzzle over her. They can't figure out what the problem is, and so they decide that it must by psychological. So they call in a head doctor who tries to make her talk about what happened but she just glares at the woman and crosses her arms over her chest. Her answer to every single prompt and question is the same: _I don't want to fucking talk about it_.

Cato tries everything he can think of. He kisses her and strokes her hair and he even tells her, completely unprompted, that he loves her. But none of it does any good.

"I don't understand," he rants one afternoon as he paces back and forth at the foot of her bed. He's fed up. He's frustrated. "I thought seeing them alive and well would make you happy."

"I _am_ happy for them. They're safe and they're free and they can go where they want now and they'll never starve."

"Then what the hell is _wrong_?"

"I don't know." She shakes her head. "I just don't know."

xxxxxxxxxx

That evening he studies her as she sleeps.

She looks awful. Not like she's starving exactly, but like she's wasting away.

He sits in the chair next to her bed and takes her hand and rests his forehead against her side.

His throat starts to close but he doesn't want to cry so he inhales deeply through his nose to fight it off.

And he notices something.

She doesn't smell like an early summer rainstorm anymore.

She smells overly acidic and sterile. Like the chemicals she's surrounded by. It burns his nostrils and his lungs.

And all of a sudden he can't breathe. He can't handle it anymore. He feels like he's going to crack.

He remembers what Beetee said, about how exhausting it is to be someone's rock all the time.

He has to get out of here. He shoots up from the chair and he strides out of the hospital and into the night. He sucks in a deep breath and the air is so cold that his nostrils and his lungs burn, but not like they did when he breathed her in a little bit ago. This time it's a good burn, a healthy burn. The sound of his shoes crunching over the packed snow is music to his ears. He feels lighter, more energized, and he's only been outside for a minute or two.

God it's like that hospital room sucks the life out of him. It's ironic, really.

He crests a nearby hill and gets his first view of the moon, just as it's beginning to rise over the mountains, and he stops in his tracks at the sight of it.

"Holy shit," he whispers.

 _She has to see this. She'd love it_.

And then it hits him. She's either been in captivity or a hospital room for two months. If _he_ feels stifled in there how does _she_ feel? When is the last time she saw the moon? Does she even remember what fresh air smells like?

He turns and races back into the hospital as fast as he can. "Do you have any of those self-heating blankets?" he calls to the first orderly he passes.

"I think so...why?" she calls back.

"Just get me one. Now. Bring it to her room."

He shakes her awake and he puts her in his hoodie and a pair of scrub pants he pilfers from a nearby supply closet, and then he slips two pairs of his socks on her feet.

"What are you doing?" she asks, rubbing her eyes.

"We're going outside," he says, just as the orderly enters with the blanket.

"Sir, she's not allowed to-"

"I don't give a shit what she is and isn't allowed to do." He snatches the blanket from the orderly's hands and he wraps Katniss up in it and hefts her into his arms like a child and hauls her outside and up that hill.

He plops down against the trunk of a pine tree. She peers up at him from inside of the hood. "What are we doing?"

"Look," he says as he settles her between his legs with her back against his chest.

She gasps.

Later, when he asks Beetee about it, he will learn that what he and Katniss are looking at is an incredibly rare event: a supermoon coinciding with a total lunar eclipse.

But right now all he knows is that the moon is _huge_ -bigger than he's ever seen it, practically the size of the mountain below it, in fact, and it's full and glowing and red as fresh blood.

The two of them just sit there in silence and watch as it rises into the velvety black sky.

xxxxxxxxxx

After that night, Cato insists on having her moved to a room with a window that faces the east so she can wake every morning with the sun on her face.

He gathers handfuls of fresh pine needles and cones and places them in a bowl beside her bed so she can smell the outdoors whenever she wants.

Most days he wraps her in his hoodie and takes her outside for an hour or two. Dr. Jefferson grumbles about it, but even that sour old fuck has to admit it's good for her. It's reawakened her appetite (she eats like a horse now; it's very unladylike) and brought color back into her face.

At night she sits in a chair by the window, a mug of hot cocoa in her hand and a pair of Cato's socks on her feet, and she watches the moon rise over the mountains.

On the days when it's too windy or snowy or rainy to go out, she gets restless and cranky and no one can stand her. But Cato will take a bad-humored Katniss over a depressed one any day.

xxxxxxxxxx

Right around the time the doctors begin to seriously discuss discharging her, Alma Coin comes to pay her a visit.

She insists on talking with her alone. Cato wants to tell her to go fuck herself, but Katniss reminds him that she's a big girl and she can handle herself, so he grudgingly leaves the room.

Twenty minutes later, Coin walks out looking smug. "We've settled on a compromise," she says to Plutarch and Cato. "She will do the interview and attend the post-trial celebration, and she is excused from both the trial itself and any ensuing executions."

"What did you say to her?" Cato asks suspiciously.

Coin shrugs. "I told her the truth. A lot of people risked their lives to rescue her, and it wasn't simply for her own sake, but because of what she represents. She is the ultimate victim of Snow's cruelty, as well as a symbol of inter-district unity and sacrifice. The people of Panem will expect to see her at the events surrounding the trial. We'll see the two of you in the Capitol next month. Plutarch will provide you with a detailed schedule closer to the time."

Cato glares at her as she makes her exit and he decides that he hates everything about her. The smug look on her face. The brisk, efficient walk. The thud of her heavy black boots on the travertine floor. The way her perfect gray hair swishes back and forth.

But mostly he hates her because he can sense that, just like Snow, she is using Katniss as a piece in some game.

xxxxxxxxxx

Once they release her, Cato and Katniss decide to stay in 3 for the time being.

The mayor grants them the use of one of the (many) empty houses in Victor's Village.

The houses are smaller than the ones in 2, but incredibly sophisticated. They can adjust the temperature and turn the lights on and off and preheat the oven with voice commands. They can lock and unlock the doors by pressing their thumbs against a keypad that recognizes their fingerprints. The faucets are motion-sensored and they don't ever have to sweep the crumbs from the floor, because there's a little disc-shaped robot that glides back and forth to suck them all up.

"Jesus, does it cook dinner too?" Cato asks.

"Actually," Beetee informs him, "the oven can sense when your meat has reached the desired internal temperature, and then it shuts itself off and signals you."

xxxxxxxxxx

For the most part, their month in the smart house is happy and peaceful.

Cato wakes every morning at dawn and cooks breakfast for Katniss, and then if the weather is good and she's not too tired, they go for a short hike on one of the easier trails.

They take lots of afternoon naps on the soft sheepskin rug beside the fire, and in the evenings, she runs herself a hot bath and turns off the lights and stargazes from the tub as she drinks her nightly mug of cocoa, while Cato stays downstairs in the living room and fantasizes about her inviting him to join her in there.

Sometimes Cinna and Beetee, who has a pack of playing cards from the days of the ancients, come over and then Cato sips whiskey and learns to play euchre and gin rummy. He's not very good, and neither is Katniss, but Beetee teaches her to shuffle the deck and dole out the cards and she picks up on it so quickly that she insists on always being the one to deal.

At night they snuggle up together under a thick down comforter and Cato breathes her in, delighted to find that she's back to smelling fresh and earthy.

One day, just as winter is turning into spring they find a stream, swiftly-moving and ice-cold from the snow melting off of the mountainsides, and they catch four trout in it. Katniss removes the scales and the heads and the fins and the tails and then she filets them and fries them in cornmeal, and plates them up along with an acorn squash that she's halved and baked with butter and brown sugar. Cato has somehow gone his whole life without ever eating either trout or butternut squash and he almost dies from sheer ecstasy.

"Oh my god, please make this every day," he says as he scrapes the last bits of translucent flesh from the thick peel.

"I wasn't sure you'd like it," Katniss says.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, this is considered poor man's food and you can be kind of…."

"A snob?" he finishes for her.

"I wasn't gonna put it like that," she says hurriedly. "It's just you really like your suits and your watches and all that."

Cato looks down at the plain white cotton t shirt and the gray sweatpants he has on and realizes that he hasn't worn a suit or a watch since the end of her tour three months ago, and he hasn't missed either one.

He looks back up into her gray eyes and he thinks to himself that if the rest of his life is nothing more than this-fried trout and acorn squash and naps with Katniss by the fire-he'll die a happy man.

xxxxxxxxxx

A week or so before they have to leave for the Capitol, Katniss goes to see Cinna about something to wear for her interview.

When she returns to the house, she slams the front door and stomps into the living room. "Did you know?"

"Know about wh-"

"About Tony Waterford _buying_ me?"

Oh fuck. Cinna and his goddamned mouth. For a split second Cato thinks about lying to her even though he knows she'll just find out the truth eventually anyway.

She notices his hesitation. "You did." Her voice is accusing.

"Not until after it had already happened," he says hurriedly, hands up by his shoulders, palms out.

"When?"

"I just told you. After it had already happened."

" _Exactly_ when?"

 _Shit_. "The night of the ball in the Capitol." _Please assume I mean after your tour, please assumed I mean after your tour, don't ask me-_

"The ball right after my games or at the end of my tour?"

 _Fuck_. He purses his lips.

"Right," she says flatly. "The one after my games. And were you gonna tell me ever?"

"Look, it didn't really matter. It was just to try to protect you from being sold. That, and-"

"I know why Tony did it. Cinna told me about the whole plan to turn you and me into a celebrity couple and reap the victors for the 76th games and have us pitted against each other and get the people to riot."

"Right...so, really, it didn't mean anything. I mean Tony wasn't ever planning to act on it so we all just thought it would be better if we just didn't-"

"Didn't tell me?" She interrupts a lot when she's angry. He did not know this about her before. "I'm not a little girl Cato! You guys don't need to _keep_ things from me. It's insulting! God! I cannot _believe_ you didn't tell me that I was technically _owned_ by someone." She's yelling now.

"I'm sorry!" he cries. _Holy shit! Did those words just come out of his mouth_?

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

"I was going to, I really was!"

"Oh, really?" She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her foot. "And what stopped you?"

"I was gonna tell you in 4. After we got back from the beach. But then you were asleep. And then in 3 we got in that fight and then in 2...well...you know...and then in 1 you were drunk and the next night was our last night together and-"

"And you should have told me!"

She's right and he knows it. But he was scared to. He was scared she'd be upset.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. He can tell that she is struggling to calm herself down. "Is there anything else you know that I don't? Anything else you should tell me?"

"No!"

"There better not be. Because if you're lying right now, and I find out, I will lose my shit." And then she turns and takes the steps, two at a time, and he hears the bedroom door slam.

He wants so badly to run after her and try to explain. But he knows better. First of all, explain what exactly? She's right and he's wrong. It's that simple. And secondly, he knows her. She needs to cool off on her own.

xxxxxxxxxx

When he goes upstairs to see if she's hungry for dinner, she's sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I _trusted_ you." She sounds hollow.

His heart and his lungs drop to the very pit of his stomach and he's standing in front of her in an instant. Her eyes are red but dry. In the fading light of dusk he can see the salt stains on her cheeks. She has cried up all of her tears; there are no more left.

"And you still can," he insists. "You can still trust me."

"Can I? Really?" Her voice is slow and flat and measured. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to trust anyone? I trusted you more than my own mother. I trusted you more than _Gale_. Don't you understand? You were the person I trusted the most. And that was a mistake."

"No it wasn't! You can still trust me!" He's desperate. He's tearing at his hair.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd be pissed so I kept putting it off, but the longer I put it off the more pissed I knew you'd be, so I just didn't do it!"

Her eyes are cold and hard and unforgiving on his face. Like the very first day he met her. "So you didn't tell me because you thought I'd be pissed?" She chuckles mirthlessly at herself. "I thought...I actually thought I loved you."

She stands up and turns around and starts toward the door

"No, please, please, you don't understand! I was wrong and I know that, but I didn't tell you because of this, because of what's happening right now! I didn't tell you because I was scared it would ruin this, ruin us! And you're the only good thing I've ever done! You're the only thing I did right! Everything in me that's not fucked up, the parts of me that aren't a monster, the parts of me that are good and pure and clean, they're you! And I'm not perfect and sometimes I will still screw up when it comes to you, but if this is it and I've _completely_ fucked up and lost your trust then I'm nothing!"

She's turned around and she's staring down at him, eyes wide, mouth open.

Because he's on his knees at her feet and he's weeping.

"I love you more than anything or anyone else!" he sobs. "Please!"

He can't see her expression anymore because he's blinded by his own tears.

But then he hears a soft thud on the hardwood floor and he feels her arms around him. And now she's rocking him back and forth, back and forth, with a gentle _shush_ against the crown of his head. He clutches her to him and tries to stop crying but he can't. Until she starts to sing. And then he falls completely silent and shudders against her. And for the first time he listens to the words of that song. To the line he's never noticed before. _Here is the place where I love you_.

When she's finished, he pushes off of her and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. But he can't look at her. He's too embarrassed over his show of emotion. "Do you?" he whispers.

"Do I what?"

"Love me?"

"Yes."

He feels like he's been electrocuted. His insides riot. He's pretty sure his heart literally thumps against his chest. He forgets all about his shame and embarrassment and he looks into her eyes, which are soft and smoky and warm on his face. "And do you still trust me?"

"Yes. I do. I understand why you didn't tell me. But Cato, you can't do that again."

"I won't. I promise. I'm sorry."

"It's ok," she says and she reaches out and caresses his cheek. "You're ok."

He _is_ ok. More than ok. Perfect, in fact. Because she still trusts him. And she loves him.

And if something happens tonight, and he never wakes up, that's just fine with him. He'll die a happy man.

xxxxxxxxxx

They're quite a pair for their interview.

He gets away with his usual behavior for these things. His answers are curt, his demeanor cold.

Katniss is a little better. She's willing to talk at length about the horror of thinking her loved ones were being tortured and killed, and the joy and relief that she felt when Cato told her it had only been a trick.

She's even willing to talk about how much her broken rib hurt and how she's still recovering from the strain that the lack of food and water and sleep put on her body.

But when they ask about the rape, she shuts down. "You look a like a smart woman," she snaps at the reporter. "Use your imagination. Besides, I'm sure you'll find out all about it at the trial."

After the interview, Alma Coin sits down on the gilded loveseat beside Katniss and takes her hand. "Thank you so much for coming. Your sacrifice is appreciated more than you'll ever know. You've inspired the entire nation. And your resilience is greatly admired."

Cato cocks his head. It's such an awkward speech. But Katniss seems to be expecting it. She smiles at Coin, although her eyes remain cold.

And then Cato hears the _click_ of a camera.

The two women embrace and the camera clicks again.

"Ok, we got it," says the photographer.

They immediately release one another and pull back. Coin stands and walks away without another word.

And now Cato understands. Coin needs Katniss's backing to cement her hold on the presidency. Her interview and attendance at the post-trial celebration imply that she's in support of Panem's new leader. This is all just propaganda. And Katniss knows it.

xxxxxxxxxx

For the sake of convenience and proximity, most of the Victors are staying at the Training Center, which is one of the few buildings in the City Circle that hasn't suffered from extensive bombing, and it's there that Cato runs into Gloss for the first time since the Victory Tour.

He walks right up to him and holds out his hand. "Thank you," he says. "For what you did for her."

Gloss clasps his hand and claps him on the shoulder. "No problem, man. It was my pleasure."

"I have to ask though...why? I mean, 1 was pro-Snow the whole time."

"It's one thing when Snow sells _you_ ," Gloss says. "You get over it, you put up with it. But when he sells your baby sister...well, then you vow revenge."

"But you seemed so loyal. Right up until the end."

Gloss grins. "I'm a good actor and a patient man."

xxxxxxxxxx

The trial starts early the next morning and lasts the entire day. There will be several more in the months to come for all of the bureaucrats and prison guards, but this is the main one. The one that everyone wants to see. The one with all of the big players.

There are twenty-three defendants. Snow, of course. And his cabinet. Seneca Crane and the other gamemakers. And last but not least, the men who bought Katniss.

She was booked a total of ten times during her month of captivity, but some of her clients were repeat customers; there were only six men who actually bought her.

All of them are hauled onstage in shackles. They stare at their feet as the Peacekeepers who escorted Katniss to and from Pratt's describe what went on in graphic detail.

For the most part it's not _too_ bad. The audience is disgusted, of course, but no one is shocked to learn that her clients were men who had a penchant for roughing up the women they fucked.

But one particular defendant, a man named Justinian Bartleby, who is seated second from the left, particularly enjoyed urinating on the faces of his whores.

Everyone in the audience turns to look in Cato's direction, and he knows that the camera is fixed on his face.

But he doesn't react the way that any of them expect him to. He simply leans back in his seat, cool as can be, his face a study in tranquility.

xxxxxxxxxx

Katniss has agreed to stay at the post-trial celebration until 10:00pm.

Before she leaves, the photographer from the interview snaps a few more propaganda shots of her and Coin. They toast each other with flutes of champagne and Coin informs her that all twenty-three defendants have been found guilty and will be executed tomorrow afternoon. Katniss gives her another fake smile and they hold hands and kiss cheeks, and then Katniss turns on her heel and leaves.

Cato sets his whiskey down on the nearest table and starts to follow her, but he's stopped by Plutarch Heavensbee. "Now maybe I'm crazy, but I'm getting that feeling that Katniss and President Coin can't stand each other."

Cato chuckles. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Plutarch smiles. "There's this book called _Animal Farm_. It's by a man named George Orwell. You've never heard of it; it's from the days of the ancients, and it's been banned since the uprising. But I managed to get my hands on a copy of it years ago. I think you'd really like it. I'll loan it to you."

Cato just stares at him. It's so _random_. "I'm not much of a reader," he says.

"Mmm. Well Tony's read it. He loves it. So does Cinna. Gloss too. I'll give you my copy anyway."

He walks away, leaving Cato to puzzle over what the fuck that was all about until Gloss approaches him with a grin on his face. "I have some presents for you."

"Presents?"

"Yeah. In the basement of the Training Center. Wrapped up and everything. Come on. Let's go open 'em."

xxxxxxxxxx

There are six of them. Arranged all in a row in one of the sparring rooms. They're wrapped up all right, just like Gloss said. In burlap and rope.

Cato grins and claps Gloss on the shoulder. "I'll be right back," he says.

He goes up to the second floor tribute apartment and he finds his trusty lighter in the bedside table, right where he left it a couple of years ago.

He stops at the wet bar on his way out and picks up a decanter of whiskey. But then he thinks better of it and sets it back down. It would be a waste of perfectly good liquor.

Instead, he goes to the beautification center and paws through all of the hair products (what the fuck is pomade?) until he finds an aerosol can labeled "CAUTION. CONTENTS FLAMMABLE."

He roots around in a maintenance room until he finds a bucket.

And then he goes to the nearest weapons room and he retrieves a spear and a knife.

He returns to the hallway just outside of the sparring room and sets his items down on the ground.

"What's the bucket for?" Gloss asks.

Cato unzips his pants and pulls his dick out. "Aaaaah," he sighs as his urine pings against the aluminum. "For Justinian Bartleby."

"You're gonna need more than that."

"So help me out man."

After Gloss gives himself a shake and zips his pants back up, they open the door and haul everything in.

"Well," Gloss says. "I'll leave you to it. But Coin says they have to still be...executable...is that a word? Whatever. I'm making it one. Executable for tomorrow. So don't go overboard."

Cato gives him a nod. And then he picks up the knife and he cuts a slit in the burlap covering each one of his presents, relishing the terror in the eyes of each newly exposed rapist.

"So," he says as he cracks his knuckles. "Which one of you wants to go first?"

xxxxxxxxxx

Five hours later he strips down and stuffs his clothes in a nearby trash can, and then, buck naked, he climbs the stairs to the District 12 apartment. He turns the shower on hot and he watches as the blood of six Capitol pigs swirls around and around and down the drain and he scrubs himself with soap until the water runs clear.

When he's all clean, he slides into bed beside Katniss and takes her in his arms.

She rolls over to face him and lets out a sleepy _mmmm_. "What time is it?"

"After 3."

"So late," she murmurs. "Where were you?"

"Don't worry about it," he whispers. "Just go back to sleep." He tucks her hair behind her ear and kisses her forehead and he gazes down at her tenderly. His little tornado. "I love you."

"Mmmm, love you too." She sighs and burrows into him and then she complies with his directive.

But Cato doesn't sleep a wink. He just lays there on his side and he strokes the silky olive skin of her left shoulder and he smiles into the dark.

If something happens tonight, and he never wakes up, that's just fine with him. He'll die a happy man.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day he attends the executions, and then he and Katniss go to Victor's Row so he can get a couple of things from his townhouse.

She gasps when they're about ten yards away.

The front door has been smashed in and all of the windows are broken.

Cato runs up the steps and into the foyer.

It's been ransacked. Everything. All of it.

His colored pencils are all broken. The box is practically a pile of wood chips. Brutus's sketches have been torn into little pieces. The atlas is in shreds.

He sinks to the floor with his head in his hands.

The hardened shell of the twenty-two-year-old man melts away, leaving behind a very vulnerable little boy who has three thoughts:

 _I want Brutus._

 _I want my mom._

 _I want Katniss_.

And then she's there with her arms around him. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "That's two houses now."

"I don't give a shit about the house," he cries. "I just wish Brutus was still here."

His throat is tight. His eyes are full. But he does _not_ want to cry in front of her again, so he bites down as hard as he can on the inside of his cheek.

It doesn't work.

One long, loud sob escapes and the dam holding his tears back breaks.

Katniss tightens her arms around him and rocks back and forth and sings, but he's inconsolable.

And so eventually she gives up and slips away. He can hear her footsteps as she retreats down the hall.

He curls up on the floor in the fetal position and he starts a second round of sobbing.

But not ten minutes later, he hears her voice above him. "Look. Cato, look." He opens his eyes to find her holding a pile of drawings in her hand. "They're Brutus's."

He sits up. "Where did you get those?"

"His house."

"I thought they cleared it out."

"They did. Most of it. But not all of the furniture yet. I found these under the couch."

He drags his sleeve across his nose. "Lemme see those." She gives him the drawings and he leafs through them. They're Brutus's alright. "Do you think there are more?"

"I don't know. Let's go look." And she holds out her hand.

xxxxxxxxxx

They look under all of the cushions and mattresses and in the drawers and the closets, but they don't find anymore.

Still. He's got something of Brutus's to hold onto, so he feels a little better.

"What about his house in 2?" Katniss asks. "Did they clear that out yet?"

"I don't know…" But hope is starting to fill up the cavity in his chest.

xxxxxxxxxx

It's unseasonably warm for April in 2.

Well, the air is, at least.

The people, on the other hand, are downright frosty. They glare at Cato and Katniss as they make their way from the train station to Victor's Village.

"Are you sure we're safe?" Katniss whispers.

"Yes. Fuck these assholes. Don't worry about them." He grabs her hand and drags her behind him the rest of the way to Brutus's house.

The front door is locked, and so are all of the windows on the first floor. So Cato lifts Katniss up to stand on his shoulders, and she gives a satisfied grunt as the bottom pane slides up easily in the frame.

She hoists herself up onto the sill and Cato steps back to admire her grace as she swings her legs over and disappears inside the house.

It's a treasure trove. There's another set of pencils, just like the other one, and dozens of drawings, although Cato doesn't find an atlas anywhere.

"I wonder where he got that," he says to Katniss.

"You'll probably never know the answer."

xxxxxxxxxx

They make a brief stop back at the train to drop off the items they've collected, and then they head to the other side of town.

Cato strides up to the front walk of his childhood home and he knocks on the door.

No one answers. But he knows someone's there. He sees a flutter at the curtain.

He knocks again. And again. And again.

"Cato, maybe we should-"

"No! I wanna fucking see her." He bangs again. "I'm not leaving until someone opens this fucking door!" he hollers.

The door flings open. His father has that sneer on his face, just like last time. "How dare you!" he shoots at Cato. "You betray your district, you bring disgrace on your mother and I, and then you have the nerve to show your weak, sorry ass-"

Cato grabs his father by his shirt collar and shoves him all the way into the back wall of the foyer. And then he wraps his hand around the man's throat.

Weak? Does his father have any idea how much strength it took to overcome the brainwashing to which he's been subjected his whole life? To let go of everything he's ever known, to sacrifice all of it? Doesn't he understand that it was weakness all these years that made him fall in line? That really they're all weak, spineless cowards? The candidates, the victors, the instructors, the Peacekeepers. All of them.

"Say it again," he grinds out. "Call me weak. One more time."

"Cato!" Katniss pleads from the doorway, but Cato just ignores her.

His father struggles, but Cato isn't even breaking a sweat as he pins him to the wall with just that one hand around his neck. "Now," he says when his father stops struggling. "I want. to see. my mother. Do you understand?"

"Cato." It's his mom's voice, soft and somehow full of both sorrow and joy at the same time.

He lets go of his father, who slinks off down the hall, and turns to see her standing there with tears in her eyes.

"Mom," he chokes out, and throws his arms around her.

She freezes, and for a second he's terrified that she, too, is ashamed of him. That she'll push him away. But then she relaxes and returns his embrace. "My baby," she whispers. He bites down hard again on the inside of his mouth to keep from sobbing with relief, and this time, thankfully, it works.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, basking in his mother's affection as she kisses his face, but eventually, he pulls back. "You have to meet Katniss," he says, turning toward the doorway. But she's not there. She's left them alone to have their mother-son moment.

They find her sitting at the edge of the yard, her face lifted toward the sun.

"Katniss," he calls. "Come meet my mom."

They're both shy, and the whole thing is awkward, but Cato can sense that they like each other, or at least they _want_ to like each other.

His mother insists on serving Katniss tea and cookies and then politely asks her about life in 12 and her family and her hunting.

Katniss, thankfully, knows better than to ask anything in return. It's pretty clear, after all, that life in the Hadley house is not exactly happy.

When it's time to go, Katniss insists on leaving the two of them alone to say their goodbyes to each other. "I'll just be out in the yard. Where I was before." And she closes the door behind her.

"My pictures are all gone," Cato says as he surveys the hallway walls.

His mother looks at him sadly. She doesn't need to say it. He can guess what happened. His father has destroyed them all.

It's ok. He'll draw her some more.

They hug and she kisses him and he promises he'll come visit again in a few months.

And just as he's about to leave, his hand on the doorknob, he turns back around. "Do you remember when I was four and I had that earache?"

"And I rocked you to sleep? Yes. You _remember_ that?!"

He smiles. "I think about it every day."

Her eyes tear up and she takes his face in her hands and he leans down to let her kiss his forehead one more time.

"You can come out from wherever you're hiding now!" he calls to his father when she releases him. And then he turns and leaves.

xxxxxxxxxx

They're silent at first as they make their way back to the train.

"This seems silly now, doesn't it?" she asks, kicking at the stone wall surrounding 2. "Let's go see what's on the other side."

He laughs. "Just tall grass and prairie dogs. And there's some of that in here too. Up at the northern edge."

She frowns at him. "Still. Let's do it anyway. Because we can."

So he takes her to the nearest gate and they just stroll right through it. There are no Peacekeepers to escort them or stop them. It feels so strange. Eerie almost.

"See. Just grass and prairie dogs," he says.

"But look at how beautiful it is! And I've never seen a prairie dog." She smiles as they pop in and out of their holes. "Everything is so wide open. And flat. And the sky is so big. And it's so windy," she says as her hair whips around her face.

"Well, there aren't all those trees here like in 12 to stop it."

They're quiet again for about half a mile. And then Cato surprises himself by speaking up out of nowhere.

"When I was little there was this other boy about my age who lived across the street, and his dad was a Peacekeeper too. Nigel, that was his name. We used to play together. And one day right before I went to the Academy, Nigel's dad snuck us out here and we played tag in the grass. You know, chasing each other around. It seemed so tall back then." He reaches out and runs his fingers over the feathery tips of the blades. "That was one of my favorite memories."

Katniss smiles at him. Her gaze is soft. "Do you know what happened to him?"

"Went to work in the quarries I heard. Once he was sixteen."

He stands there quietly, and sadness pools in the space between his organs.

And then all of a sudden Katniss gives him a shove. "Tag, you're it," she says with a grin, and takes off running through the grass.

"Are you serious?" he calls after her.

"Catch me!"

"You shouldn't be running! You're not a hundred percent yet!"

"Aww, what's the matter? Afraid you're too slow?"

 _Too slow_? Who the _fuck_ does she think she's talking to? Oh, he's gonna show her.

He takes off after her and he's caught up in seconds. She lets out a squeal, and he ignores the twitch of his cock. He reaches out, but just as his fingers are about to brush against her hair, she lets out another one of those squeals and darts sharply to the right. He's got to hand it to her: he may be the faster of the two, but she's more nimble by far. She zigzags this way and that, always just out of his reach, leaving a jagged path through the grass as she tramples it underfoot. After a couple of minutes, though, she starts to grow tired and he reaches out and snakes his arms around her waist and hauls her gently to the ground.

Her squeals will the be death of him, he swears.

"Are you ticklish?" he asks teasingly as he runs his fingers lightly over her sides.

She gasps and kicks out involuntarily. "No!" There's a note of panic in her voice.

"Hmm, I don't believe you," he says, his voice silky and sadistic. He puts his lips against her ear and whispers to her. "I think you're lying to me." And he proceeds to tickle her mercilessly on her sides and behind her knees.

She squeals and giggles and squirms until finally she begs for mercy. "I can't breathe!" she cries in between gasps.

"Alright, alright," he laughs. He lets her catch her breath for a few moments and then he leans down and kisses her, long and deep. She sighs and pulls him down on top of her.

They kiss until they grow drowsy and then they doze off in their nest of grass to the sound of the bees droning in the warm sunshine.

Just before sleep overtakes him, Cato thinks to himself that if the rest of his life is nothing more than this-the sun and the bees and naps with Katniss in the grass-he'll die a happy man.

xxxxxxxxxx

It's even warmer in 12 than it was in 2. _Hot_ actually. At least eighty degrees.

The people of 12 are much warmer too. They smile knowingly at the sight of Cato and Katniss together, which makes her blush furiously.

The first day, she shows him around the district. He sees it all. The Hob, the seam, the town.

He is appalled when he sees her old house. "You _lived_ there?"

She shrugs. "Yeah."

He's beginning to get a feel for just how bad things were for her. Jesus she's one tough little shit.

As she's taking him through town, a sign catches his eye. _Mellark's Bakery_.

"Is that-?" But he can't finish. He feels like someone's knocked the wind out of him.

"Yes. Do you wanna go in?"

He shakes his head. _No way_. Maybe some day he'll go in there and apologize to Peeta Mellark's mother and father and brothers. But today is not that day. It's too terrifying.

xxxxxxxxxx

On the second day in 12, she takes him into the woods.

She grins as she pulls a bow and a quiver of arrows from a hollowed out log. "Still here! You train at all with this?"

"Yeah. But it's been a long time since I shot one. LIke before my games."

She hands it to him.

He's not awful. But he's not good either. So he hands it back to her after about half an hour.

He watches her in awe as she shoots squirrel after squirrel right through the eye. She makes it look so easy.

xxxxxxxxxx

On the third day she takes him to the lake.

She splashes him and he retaliates by diving under and snatching her ankle to dunk her.

They play around for a couple of hours under the hot sun until his skin turns golden and hers turns bronze and then they nap under the shade of a nearby tree.

He puts his mouth to her shoulder to see what the lake water has left behind on her skin. She tastes metallic and mineraly and like decaying leaves and grass. He doesn't like this as much as the salt that the ocean leaves behind.

But still. If the rest of his life is nothing more than this-hunting for squirrels and afternoon swims and naps with Katniss under the trees-he'll die a happy man.


	19. Our Little Secret

**I'm sorry it's been so long since I've updated! I lost the spark for a while there, even though I knew where the story was going. There are a handful of chapters left, and hopefully I'll get them all done in the next couple of weeks. Enjoy this one, and if it's been a while, you may want to reread the last section of Chapter 12 (Misplaced Anger) and the first section of Chapter 13 (Whatever This Is With Us), because those events are referenced below.**

xxxxxxxxxx

The two of them hold a discussion that night about where to go next.

They briefly consider returning to 3, but they agree they'd rather try something new.

Cato kind of wants to go to 5. He was too numb to pay attention to it on his own tour, but he felt the tiniest bit of curiosity about the place sprout inside of him when he saw it on Alex's tour, and again when he saw it on Katniss's tour. "But I know you didn't like it there," he says. "You said it felt barren."

"Well...still. If you want to go there..."

"You should pick," Cato insists. "Your birthday is coming up soon."

"Maybe 7."

Cato is surprised. "You said you weren't all that excited to go there. And anyway, if you want trees…" he gestures toward the window. "We're surrounded by them here."

"Well I didn't think I'd be that interested in it, but it was different than I thought. It felt different from 12, you know? The trees, the air. And I wonder if they have different animals to hunt. It would be fun to go hiking outside the walls."

"That doesn't sound like a very good idea. We'd be out in the middle of nowhere."

"What's the matter?" she teases. "Scared? Don't worry, big boy, I'll protect you. Me and my bow. We're all you need."

 _Why that little..._ "You're such a little shit sometimes, you know that? And I'm not scared. I'm just worried about whether or not you're physically up to it yet," he says, ignoring her scowl. "You know, your lung and your heart and if we get lost and you're exhausted…"

"We won't get lost! I bet anything Plutarch can get ahold of a map for us. Snow and all of his people and even the Peacekeepers would have had access to one. And I'm fine! Stop worrying about me! We went hiking almost every day in 3!"

Cato sighs. Clearly Katniss is not going to give up on this.

"But I want to see 4 too," she says. "I loved the ocean. I wish we could've spent more than a day there. And I liked Annie."

This sounds like a much better idea. "Let's start with 4," he suggests. "Enjoy it before it gets too hot. And then _maybe_ we can head up to 7 after that. You know, escape the heat."

She's so excited she jumps up and down and giggles and squeals and gives him a big kiss.

"Ok, ok," he laughs as he pries her arms from around his neck. "Don't get too excited. I said _maybe_. It depends on how you're feeling." But she's so happy, and he doesn't think he's ever seen her like this, so girlish in her delight. His insides are turning to mush and he knows deep down that she's the one person he can't say no to.

xxxxxxxxxx

They arrive in 4 a few days later.

Just like the last time, Annie takes Katniss's hand and leads her into the ocean.

"Don't go too far," Finnick calls out to them just as Cato says "Stay where I can see you."

Katniss just rolls her eyes and gives Cato a dismissive wave, but Annie gives Finnick a look of affectionate exasperation. "Really Finnick? I'm not made of glass."

Cato is confused. Why is Finnick worried about Annie? She survived a flooded arena with ease.

"She's pregnant," Finnick says when he sees Cato's expression. And then he breaks into a proud grin.

Cato laughs and claps Finnick on the shoulder "Congratulations man!" It's an impulsive reaction, a genuine one, and it confuses the shit out of him. "I'm...happy...for...you," he continues slowly, his face serious again.

Now Finnick is the one to laugh. "You don't sound too sure about that."

"No, I am. I'm just...surprised, that's all," he fibs, because how can he tell Finnick Odair this just might be the first time he's experienced pure, unselfish joy for someone else?

xxxxxxxxxx

Finnick and Annie have invited the two of them to stay at their house, which is right on the shore. It's cool and airy and peaceful.

Or so Cato thinks until it's time to go to sleep.

Katniss is out like a log, but the sound of the waves crashing on the shore is keeping him awake. He tosses and turns and puts his pillow over his head, but then he can't breathe, so finally he gives up with a sigh and shuffles downstairs to see if he can find anything to eat.

"Can't sleep?" calls a soft voice just as he opens the refrigerator door. It startles him so much he jumps a little, and then he turns to face Annie Cresta with a guilty look on his face. True, they told him and Katniss to make themselves at home but this might be taking their kind words a bit too literally.

"Uh, yeah. I mean no. No, I can't sleep."

"You need warm milk with honey. Or chamomile tea," she says, and reaches into a nearby cupboard to retrieve two mugs. "Preference?"

"Tea." And then, belatedly, he remembers his manners. "Please."

"I'll have one too," Annie says, and puts the kettle on the stove.

He just stands there awkwardly while Annie hums softly and busies herself with making their tea. When she's done, she turns around and hands him his cup with a warm smile. "Should we sit out on the deck?"

Cato would love to say _No thank you_ and retreat upstairs to his cave to nurse his embarrassment, but something tells him it would be rude. So he follows Annie out to the deck and settles himself across from her.

They're silent for a few minutes, and it's horribly awkward, at least to Cato, although something tells him Annie doesn't mind at all.

And then he remembers the baby. "Finnick says you're pregnant. Congratulations."

She smiles and looks down at her belly, where she's rested her hand. "Thank you. I'm about nine weeks along."

Cato doesn't really know what that means. But ok. He takes a sip of his tea, but it's still too hot and it burns his tongue. "Are you excited?"

"Of course."

 _Of course. What a stupid fucking question_.

They're silent again for a few minutes and Cato doesn't know what to do. He's out of things to talk about, so he looks up at the night sky and taps his feet while he waits for his tea to cool down just enough for him to chug it as fast as he can and bid Annie Cresta goodnight.

"Do you want children someday Cato?"

 _Well that came out of nowhere_.

"I..am not sure," he says carefully as he studies Annie's face in the starlight. "I've never really thought about it." _Does_ he want them?

"Katniss tells me the two of you haven't made love yet."

 _What?!_ First of all, how the _hell_ did that topic come up? And secondly, do people really use the expression _made love_?

Cato has no idea how to respond. Part of him wants to stand up this very second and bolt back upstairs. And another part of him is curious. How _did_ this come up? And what else did Katniss say?

He's not quite sure what to do. So, "no," he tells Annie. "We haven't...done...that...yet."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I um, I just, you know, with everything that happened to her and I just, I'm not sure she's ready and, I don't really...I don't really wanna talk about this." He stands up so abruptly he almost knocks his tea over and he strides toward the sliding glass doors.

"You're right, she's not quite ready yet," Annie calls softly to his back. "But she's getting _very_ curious. She says she thinks about you a lot."

It stops Cato in his tracks and he whirls back around, eyes wide. He takes one step back toward his chair and his mug of tea. "She thinks about me?"

"Mmm-hmm."

He takes another step toward his chair. "Thinks about me like how?"

Annie laughs. It's a delicate, caressing sound, like a blade of grass on bare skin. "Oh, Cato, come on."

Another step. "She thinks about me like...like..doing... _that_?

"Yes," Annie laughs again. "She thinks about what it would be like for you to make love to her."

He plops down in the chair. "Why do you call it that?"

"Because that's what it is." Annie's tone is matter-of-fact. "Or at least that's what it should be. Have you ever made love to a woman Cato?"

"Please stop saying that. And yes. You know I have. With lots of women."

"No. I _don't_ know that. I know you've fucked lots of women."

The sound of that word coming out of sweet, innocent Annie Cresta's mouth makes Cato start.

She smiles at his reaction. "But that's not the same thing at all."

Cato just stares at Annie. He has no idea what to say.

"She also told me about that night in 2 on her tour. After you got back from Brutus's grave and your parents' house."

"Yep, nope, that's it, I'm done," and he's up and running for the door again.

"Cato, I want to help you. Please. For Katniss's sake. She's going to be ready soon."

 _Fuuuuuck_.

He turns back around. "Did she ask you to talk to me or something?"

"No. She has no idea we're having this conversation. And I won't tell her. Now, please sit back down and tell me what happened."

"That night in 2 you mean?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"I thought she told you what happened."

"I want to hear what _you_ think happened."

Cato swallows hard. And then he picks up his mug with a shaking hand and takes a gulp. He clears his throat. "Well, she brought me some whiskey and then she touched my, um, hair, and I kissed her on the...on her...you know," he stutters as he points to his sternum.

"That's not what I meant," Annie says gently. "I meant what was the tone? What were you feeling right before it happened?"

 _Feelings? Men from 2 don't have feelings_. He takes another swig of his tea and he shifts his gaze around nervously.

"Cato."

"Alright, alright. I was pissed off. Because I didn't think I'd ever see 2 again. Or my mom."

"And how do you think that affected what happened between the two of you that night?"

 _God, this is a nightmare_. _An absolute nightmare._

"I don't know," he snaps. Except he does know.

Annie studies him, her eyes full of understanding.

He sighs and closes his eyes and he remembers that night. How he completely lost control, how he forgot for a moment that Katniss was a human being and not an object to take his pain and his anger out on. How he almost hurt her. "I tried to take my anger out on her."

"Is that what sex has always been for you? An outlet? A coping mechanism?"

Cato nods, his eyes still closed.

"And the next morning," Annie continues. "What happened there? What was behind that?"

His eyes fly open. _She knows about that too?_

"Yes, Cato, I know about that too. What happened?"

"I was sleeping and she woke me up by touching my...um...face."

"Ok, but how did you _feel_?"

He wants to vomit. The words are circling through his brain. _Tender. Grateful. Loved._ But he'll be damned if he's gonna actually say them out loud.

It's ok though, because apparently Annie can read his mind. "It's ok, you don't have to tell me. But do you understand the difference now? Between fucking and making love?"

Cato nods. And then the words slip out before he can stop them: "But what if I-" he cuts himself off.

"What if you what?"

"What if I start out...you know...and I, like, regress or something?"

Annie frowns thoughtfully. "Regress?"

"Yeah, like what if I...what if I…" and then he takes a deep breath and in a flood of words he gives voice to a fear he never even knew he had: "WhatifIlosecontrolandgobacktotheguywhojustfucksandwhatifIhurther?"

"Ohhhhh," Annie nods knowingly. "I don't think you will. But if you're still worried about that when the time comes, don't focus on yourself at all. Focus entirely on her, on what makes _her_ feel good. Go slowly. Explore. Pay attention to the signals she gives you. Listen to her breathing. Listen to the sounds she makes. Feel the way her body moves in your hands. Don't even make it about trying to get her to climax. Just concentrate on learning how her body works and on making her feel good. And you'll find it will happen naturally."

Cato is so mesmerized he's leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring open-mouthed at Annie. When she's done, he sits back in his chair and repeats her instructions in his head. _Go slowly. Pay attention. Listen._ It seems like good advice, focusing entirely on Katniss and all that. But he likes to get off too.

"So focus _entirely_ on her?" he asks Annie. "And not..not at all on me? Like at all?"

Annie laughs at him. She knows what he's fishing for. "The men who are best in bed...they find their own pleasure in that of the woman they love."

 _They find their own pleasure in that of the woman they love_. Cato frowns. He thinks he understands what Annie means, but-

"Or if you need it spelled out for you, the men who are best in bed get off on their woman getting off."

"I knew what you meant," he mutters, but really he's grateful for the clarification. He downs the rest of his tea and then he stands up. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

He's almost to the door but he has to make sure one last time, so he turns around, his fingers on the handle. "You won't tell her we talked about this?"

"I promise."

"Ok. Thanks. And, umm…"

"I won't tell Finnick either. It'll be our little secret. Just between the three of us."

"The _three_ of us?!"

"Mmm-hmm. You, me, and Baby Odair."


	20. If You Aren't With Us, You're Against Us

**A/N: If you've never read Animal Farm by George Orwell (or if it's been a while), you might want to skip on over to Wikipedia and read the plot.**

xxxxxxxxxx

The next morning a messenger arrives at Annie and Finnick's house with a parcel for Cato.

When he tears the wrapping away, he finds a tattered paperback book, small and slim, with a pig on the cover. _Animal Farm_ it says. _George Orwell_.

He opens it up to find a message scrawled out in ink on the flyleaf: _Thought you could use a little beach reading. Enjoy!_

There is no signature.

"What's that?" Katniss calls from the living room.

"A book."

"A book? But you don't like to read. Who's it from?"

Cato turns to the inside of the back cover to look for the name of the gift-giver, but he finds nothing. He picks up the brown paper wrapping and inspects it, inside and out. Nothing. But he knows who it's from.

"Heavensbee. It's this book he's got a hard-on for and he says he wants me to read it." He wrinkles his nose. "But I don't want to."

"There must be some reason he gave it to you."

"Well then he should tell me what it is. I've got better things to do. Odair's taking me fishing." And Cato tosses the book on the hall table without another glance.

xxxxxxxxx

A few days later another messenger arrives, this time with an envelope addressed to Cato and Katniss. It's from Alma Coin, or rather, from her people, and it contains a summons for the two of them to take part in the very first Presidential cabinet meeting the following week in the Capitol.

Cato is not happy about being _summoned_ like a dog.

Also he doesn't understand what a _cabinet_ meeting is.

"We're not going," he says to Katniss.

She takes the letter and she chews on her bottom lip as she scans it.

"I think we should go," she says, and hands the paper back to him.

"First of all, we're not dogs she can command. And second, what's a cabinet meeting?"

"I don't know. But I still think we should go."

Something is fishy here. "I thought you despised her."

"I do. But we weren't planning to stay here more than a week or so anyway, and it's on the way to 7 and if we're going to get a map from Plutarch we'll need to stop there. Let's just see what it's about." She's trying to feign nonchalance, but it sounds awkward and forced. She's not the greatest actress, his Katniss, and Cato feels a twinge of unease in his bones.

Still. Her logic is sound. And so he rolls his eyes and sighs out a _fine_. And then he crumples up the paper and tosses it on the hall table, right beside his discarded beach read.

xxxxxxxxxx

Out of sheer spite, Cato refuses to leave for the Capitol until the morning of the meeting, so they get there with only a few minutes to spare.

When they step off of the train, they're welcomed by the crowd that has gathered to witness their arrival. People are cheering and waving from below the platform, not just for Katniss, but for Cato too. It's hard to estimate, but there has to be at least a thousand people in that crowd. There are even a few photographers and a camera crew is recording their arrival on video.

A squad of whatever Coin calls her equivalent of Peacekeepers surrounds them to escort them to her headquarters. Cato rolls his eyes. It's a bit much in his opinion. But Katniss seems overwhelmed and a little alarmed. So, with a glare, he pushes the guard hovering over her back a foot or so and then he lays a reassuring hand on the small of her back.

xxxxxxxxxx

Everyone else is already assembled in the board room, and when they're shown in, Coin frowns at them from her seat at the head of the table. Her eyes are cold and dull, and Cato catches the faintest whiff of resentment emanating from her pores.

He looks around the room to see who else is here. Plutarch. Beetee. Gloss. The mayors of Districts 3-12. Tony. A handful of Coin's people Cato recognizes. And the high-ranking Peacekeeper whose units "arrested" Cato, Tony, and Katniss's family.

"First order of business," Coin says as soon as they've seated themselves. And then everyone launches into all kinds of boring crap about finances and rebuilding the Capitol or maybe even moving it to somewhere in 9 so it's more centralized. Cato can feel his eyes glazing over. He doesn't have anything to contribute to the conversation, and he's still not sure what this cabinet meeting is all about. If it's just about this kind of stuff why are he and Katniss and Gloss here?

"And now we need to figure out what to do about District 2's declaration of secession," Coin says.

Cato's ears perk up. _Se-what now?_

"What do you mean _do_ about it?" Beetee asks.

"Well we can't just let them secede."

"Well I don't see what else we can do. Why is it a problem? Why can't they?"

"We need the raw materials from the quarries."

"And they need grain and meat and lumber and coal. The trade agreements will be easy enough to set up."

"I don't want to rely on another nation for resources we need. It makes us vulnerable. They'll have something to hold over our heads."

"Wait, wait, wait…" says Tony. "They're surrounded by us on all sides. They _have_ to trade with us. It sounds like we're the ones who would have something to hold over _their_ heads."

"They're dangerous."

"How so?" Tony challenges her.

"They've bred most of the Peacekeepers, who are, I think we can all agree, quite ironically named considering the atrocities they've committed against the people of the outlying districts over the years. In fact, many of them could reasonably be brought up on charges of assault and murder. Now that almost all of them have returned to 2 it would be especially alarming if they were to secede. They basically already have their own standing army, not to mention the culture in general there is a violent one."

But Tony is confident in his response. "Again, they're geographically surrounded. All of the technology for their weapons comes from 3. They're vastly outnumbered by the rest of us. They may be tough, but they don't have the resources or the-how can I put this tactfully?- _ability_ to manufacture high-tech weapons. No offense to my buddy here," he nods his head in Cato's direction.

Coin's jaw is tense. "What do you think?" she asks Cato, who isn't really sure why it matters at all what he thinks.

"Ha! I don't give a shit what those assholes do. I couldn't care less about any of them." _Except for my mom_.

It is _not_ the answer Coin was looking for, and she shakes her head in exasperation. "It sets a bad example for the rest of the districts. What if they decide to secede as well?"

"If our relationship with the Capitol and the other districts benefits us then we won't be tempted to," the mayor of 8 cuts in. "And we can always woo 2 back into the fold over time. Show them just how attractive it is to be a part of our federation."

"That's a good strategy," the mayor of 4 agrees. "It could work. But even if it doesn't, we're more concerned with unity and freedom of movement and exchange of ideas. We're very eager to get to know each other. We've been kept in the dark too long. Correct me if I'm wrong," she gestures toward her counterparts, "but I think I speak for all of us when I say that secession is the furthest thing from our minds. I don't see a problem with 2's declaration."

Her words are met with enthusiastic nods and a chorus of _yesses_ and _yeahs_ and _exactlies_ by the other mayors.

Coin clenches her jaw even more tightly and looks around the room.

The mayors, Plutarch and his Peacekeeper, Tony and Beetee. All are in favor of letting 2 do whatever it wants.

Gloss hasn't said a word, but his demeanor makes his indifference on the matter clear.

Katniss is looking down at her hands in her lap and she's jiggling her left leg up and down nervously.

Even one of Coin's people, a tall, dignified-looking man called Boggs, is looking skeptical of his leader.

The president sits back in her chair abruptly, and something in her manner reminds Cato of a spoiled, petulant child sulking because she hasn't gotten her way. "Fine," she snaps.

For some odd reason, Katniss lets out an almost inaudible sigh of relief and relaxes.

"Let's move on to what to do about 1 then."

"Huh?" Now Coin has Gloss's attention.

"We need to make an example of them."

"To _whom_?!" Gloss cries.

"The other districts, of course." Her tone is matter-of-fact.

"But they didn't do anything," Mayor Undersee says slowly.

"Their Peacekeepers fought against us."

"And they're currently being tried and punished. But the _people_ of 1 didn't do anything."

"They stayed loyal to Snow," Coin points out.

"In the sense that they didn't rise up against him, yes. But they didn't rise up against us either. They didn't fight at all."

"They weren't with us. And if they weren't with us, then they were against us and they must be punished for it. I propose that since they refused to fight against the Capitol, their children be made to do it instead."

" _WHAT?!"_ the whole room, apart from Coin's cronies, erupts.

But she just shrugs. "We hold one final, symbolic Hunger Games, where 12 children from 1 and 12 children from the Capitol are reaped. And those chosen from 1 may not be candidates who have been trained in their Academy."

The room has gone silent. Cato realizes his mouth his hanging open and forces himself to close it.

"What?" Coin asks as she surveys their reaction. "I seriously considered obliterating the entire population of 1 _and_ the Capitol, but this is a far more merciful track to take."

"Are you insane?!" Gloss has shot up from his seat and he's leaning over the table, his shocked eyes fixed on the president.

"What do you care? They hate you. They turned on you after you helped with the rescue mission."

"Some of them, yes, but not all of them! I have family there still, friends! People I care about!"

"Cato has family in 2. Friends, I'm sure. And you heard what he just said. He couldn't care less about what happens to them."

Cato is livid. Who does this bitch think she is, speaking for him? "I may have said I couldn't care less about them," he grinds out, his voice low and steady, but his insides burning, "but I wouldn't agree with untrained children from my district being reaped either."

Coin narrows her eyes and turns toward the mayor of 11. "Think of that little girl. Rue. It was that boy from 1 who killed her-"

"How _dare_ you?!" the mayor bites out. He's on his feet now too, just like Gloss. "You fucks in 13, you don't know what it's like to watch your children be reaped and slaughtered! The rest of us do. And that's exactly why we _refuse_ to countenance another Games, even if it involves the children of a Career district and the Capitol."

Beetee breaks in, his voice calm, his hands spread. "Look, I get that we should be cautious when it comes to them. Keep them contained. Restrict them from traveling. Install surveillance, station soldiers there to maintain order and make sure they don't try anything. But this plan of yours…"

Coin is glaring daggers at all of them, her eyes darting from person to person. She's so angry she's almost shaking. Boggs leans down and whispers something in her ear, and she nods grudgingly. "We're adjourning for the day. We can discuss measures for keeping an eye on 1 tomorrow." And then she rises and stalks to the door in the wall behind her, summoning for her cronies to follow her.

Gloss is still shaking with anger. "You ok man?" Cato asks his friend. "You need a drink?"

"She's a fucking pig," Gloss mutters.

A _pig_? Cato is puzzled. He can think of a lot of nasty words he'd use to describe President Coin, but _pig_ isn't one of them.

xxxxxxxxxx

Tony has invited Cato and Katniss to stay at his place, and as they settle into their room, Cato brings up her strange reaction.

"You seemed relieved when everyone agreed that 2 should be allowed to secede," he says. "I thought that was weird."

But she just shrugs. "What's weird about it? I was worried that if Coin got her way, we'd go to war against 2. And your mother…"

 _Well that makes sense._ "Oh. I guess I hadn't thought of that."

xxxxxxxxx

Plutarch has been invited to dinner at Tony's, and while they wait to be called to the table, the ex-gamemaker approaches Cato as he leans on the stone railing of the back veranda, sipping on a pre-dinner whiskey and watching the sun makes its way toward the horizon.

"Have you had a chance to read that book yet?"

"I told you I don't read."

"I'll tell you about Italy," Plutarch offers in a sing-song voice.

Cato gasps. _Italy?!_ "How did you know about that?"

"Beetee told me. You read that book and then I'll tell you about Italy."

"We'll be gone by the time I'm done!"

"It's a hundred and forty pages, Cato. You can finish it in a day."

Cato snorts in answer. Plutarch obviously doesn't know how slow he is. "Can't you just _tell_ me about it?"

"No. It won't have the same effect."

Cato sighs. He _hates_ to read, but _god_ does he want to know about Italy. "Fine. I'll start tonight."

"Good. Now what did you think of today?"

"It was pretty fucked up. What's a cabinet meeting anyway?"

"It's sort of like a council of advisors."

"Advisors? Then why the hell were me and Gloss and Katniss invited? I mean I get why Beetee's there, he's a genius, but the rest of us?"

"Appearances. Look at how you were greeted when you arrived. Gloss had his own crowd, though not quite as big, when he arrived because of the role he played in Katniss's rescue and in the revolution. Coin needs your public support. If you all endorse her decisions, she can do whatever she wants. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but you know what I mean."

"Well I get that, except that we _aren't_ backing her decisions."

"You're right," Plutarch says softly, his gaze fixed on Cato. "You aren't."

The hairs on the back of Cato's neck stand up. There's something eerie about Plutarch's tone right now. Something creepy.

"I don't get it. What are you trying to say? That we should just say yes to all of her fucked-up ideas?"

"Oh come on Cato. You were in that room. You know I don't agree with her either."

"Well then what's your point?"

"My point is, be careful."

"Be careful?" Cato scoffs. "Of what?"

"Of her," Plutarch says. "She said it herself. If you're not with her, then you're against her, and you must be punished for it."


	21. Home

He tries to read Plutarch's book that night. He really does. But he can't stop thinking about what Plutarch said about Coin and so even though his eyes glide over the words on the pages, he has no idea what any of it actually means.

He's not panicked exactly. Plutarch can be a little over-the-top at times, at least in Cato's opinion. But something about Coin rubbed him the wrong way the very first time he met her, when she came to visit Katniss in 3, and his impression of her has gone steadily downhill with each interaction. And now Plutarch's words have validated his mistrust. It's enough to leave him alarmed.

After a while he gives up and sets the book on the nightstand and then he turns off the lamp and rolls over to spoon Katniss.

"You awake?" he whispers into her hair.

"Hmm-mmm."

 _Well in that case_. "Let's go to 7 as soon as this cabinet thing is over."

That wakes her up.

She rolls over to face him. "That's the day after tomorrow."

"I know."

"I figured you'd try to talk me out of it. Because you think I'm still too weak."

"We'll go slow," Cato says. "Take our time." He doesn't say what he's really thinking, which is that he wants to get Katniss as far away from here as soon as possible. Never mind that he'll miss his chance to talk to Plutarch about Italy.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day's meeting is boring, but apparently it's productive because they come away with a plan for keeping an eye on 1 and the remaining Capitolites, who have all been confined to the northwestern corner of the city for the time being. They also come to a consensus to build a new Capitol on the western edge of 9.

And so the following morning Cato and Katniss stand behind Coin with the rest of the "advisors," as she broadcasts the new developments to the nation. Her tone remains neutral throughout the speech, but as she announces that 2 will secede and become its own nation, a sour note curls up around the edges of her voice.

When it's over with, Cato turns to Coin and raises his eyebrows. "Are we done here?"

She studies him coldly. "For the time being."

xxxxxxxxxx

They arrive in 7 less than 24 hours later and Cato feels a distinct sense of relief. True, Coin could easily find out where they've gone if she doesn't already know, but soon the two of them will leave the walls of the district and venture out into the wilderness, where she won't be able to reach them. They'll be gone for a few weeks, and by the time they return, she probably will have cooled off some about 2 seceding and her idea for a final games being shot down. She'll be too busy with plans for the new Capitol to pay any attention to them.

He and Katniss spend the day gathering their supplies and that evening Cato spreads everything out on the floor of their room in the mayor's mansion and surveys it.

2 backpacks

2 changes of clothing (one for her and one for him)

1 length of rope

1 scoop net

2 knives

1 bow (left-handed compound, lightweight and small)

A dozen arrows in a thigh quiver

2 motion-powered flashlights

1 compass

2 canteens

2 boxes of water purification tablets

1 first aid kit

1 firestarter

1 lb. each of nuts, jerky and dried fruit (to be consumed only if absolutely necessary)

2 sleeping bags (although they really only need 1 because Cato is planning to have Katniss squeeze into his with him)

1 map of the wilderness surrounding 7 that Plutarch was able to procure for them

1 tattered paperback book, small and slim, with a pig on the cover, because Katniss insisted

xxxxxxxxxx

The next morning they eat a big, hearty breakfast of oatmeal and eggs and sausage with the mayor, and then it's time for them to be on their way.

Katniss is giddy as she finishes lacing her boots, but when she picks up her pack she frowns. "This feels suspiciously light."

"That's because most of the stuff is in mine," he says as he hoists his onto his back. "I can take your sleeping bag too."

Katniss rolls her eyes. "I can take my own sleeping bag, thank you very much. And I can carry my half of the supplies."

"I'm a hell of a lot stronger than you. This feels like nothing," Cato says, as he shrugs his shoulders back and forth. "You still have to carry your bow and arrows and your canteen."

"Fine," she grumbles, and hands him her sleeping bag.

They fill their canteens, and she straps her quiver to her thigh and slings her bow over her shoulder, and with a _goodbye and good luck_ from the mayor, they're on their way.

xxxxxxxxxx

It's _gorgeous_ , it's absolutely breathtaking, and they're not even halfway through the first day when Cato decides this just may be the most incredible experience of his life, apart from falling in love with Katniss, of course.

For one thing, he's never realized that the color green could be so...well... _green_. The leaves, the moss, even the river (which is called the _Columbia_ according to their map) as it reflects the trees that line its banks, they're all a saturated emerald hue. The sky is a pale, pearly gray most of the time, and even when the sun comes out the air never quite loses its hazy feel. And every time Cato inhales, he's met with the fresh smell of rain and dirt and pine needles.

It's hard, steady work, and he lays down every night exhausted, but he's more lighthearted than he's ever been in his life in spite of his sore muscles.

Their diet is a meat-based one, supplemented by the berries they gather along the way. Katniss shoots ducks and rabbits, and he's impressed at how skillfully she cleans and dresses each catch.

He makes himself useful by catching fish and building a fire every evening so they can roast their game.

Even though it's mid-May, it still gets chilly at night this far north, but they burrow into Cato's sleeping bag and wrap themselves around each other, so they're all warm and toasty and they sleep like babies in spite of the hard ground beneath them.

xxxxxxxxxx

On their third day they run across a waterfall, swift and rushing, that cascades in an uninterrupted torrent a couple hundred feet to the river below.

"How are we gonna get down there? Should we rappel down that?" Katniss jokes with a grin, pointing to the moss-covered cliff beside it. "Could you imagine? We each make it out of our games and through the revolution only to fall to our deaths?"

"Yeah, no. We're gonna die of old age," Cato says, and with that, the two of them turn away from the falls in search of a more graduated path to the bottom.

It takes them a few hours, but they make it down eventually, and they're rewarded first with a clearing filled with hazy sunlight and yellow wildflowers and delicate little hummingbirds with ruby-colored throats, and then, as they make their way back toward the river, with a full view of the waterfall. In the early evening light, it looks like pure, snowy white silk.

"Have you ever seen a waterfall before?" he asks Katniss as they sit side-by-side and stare at it in awe.

"Hmm-mm. You?"

"No. I wish-" His throat starts to ache and he cuts himself off.

"You wish what?"

"If Brutus had known how different everything would turn out-" But he has to stop again.

"You think maybe he wouldn't have drunk himself to death?"

Cato is seized by a sudden flash of anger. "What a coward. What a _fucking_ coward." He yanks a handful of grass from beside him and throws it as hard as he can and then he drops his head into his hands. "And he left me! He fucking left me. If he'd just held out a little longer he could be doing this," he gestures around them. "He could be going to all kinds of places and seeing all kinds of things. But he was a fucking coward."

He can feel Katniss's eyes on him, and he turns to look into their gray depths. They are calm and sad and full of understanding and they have a soothing effect on him. She draws his head down into her lap and runs her fingers through his hair.

But her lips are still. She doesn't correct him. She doesn't point out that if Brutus hadn't died, he wouldn't have fallen in love with her, and so she would have lost the games and the revolution probably wouldn't have happened.

She doesn't point out that Brutus's death is the very reason they're here right now.

She knows that logic has no right to intrude upon grief.

xxxxxxxxxx

Later that night, as they settle into Cato's sleeping bag Katniss asks him where he would live if he had the choice.

"I don't know," he tells her. "I used to think 2 and the Capitol were the only places worth living, but now... 4 isn't bad, I like 3, I like it here. And I still want to see 5."

"And Italy," Katniss reminds him.

"Oh yes. And Italy."

"Does it bother you that you're homeless right now?" she asks.

"Homeless? I don't think I'm homeless. Why do you say that?"

"Well, think about it. Your townhouse is wrecked. Your mansion in 2 is gone. Your childhood home...you know. I mean we stayed in 3 for a while, but otherwise we've been bouncing around from place to place for the last couple of months. I just figured maybe you missed having someplace to call home."

But Cato knows that home isn't a roof over his head and four walls around him and Frette linens on his bed.

Home is a community. It's a sense of belonging.

And he has those things now. He has Beetee and Tony and Gloss and Finnick and even Annie Cresta.

But most importantly he has Katniss.

"No. I'm not homeless," he says with utter certainty, and in the dying firelight he can see the confusion on Katniss's face.

So he spells it out for her.

"Don't you understand? I'm with you. I _am_ home."

xxxxxxxxxx

A few days later they find themselves on the west coast of Panem, staring at the ocean.

It looks completely different than 4. The shore is rockier, and filled with pebbles instead of sand. The wind whips against Katniss's jacket (Cato is too proud to wear his even though he _is_ a little chilly) and sends the wisps of hair that always manage to escape her braid flying around her face. The water is dark and sullen and the waves froth and foam and throw themselves against the boulders that line the coast.

Katniss laughs with delight.

"What?"

"I was just thinking that the forest here feels so wise and old compared to the one in 12. Stable, you know? Unshakeable. Like it's seen everything there is to see and nothing can upset it anymore. But then we get here and it feels wild and angry, like it's got something to prove and...what's that?" Her eye has been caught by a movement on the pebbles a few yards away.

It's a crab, about the size of Cato's hand, with a reddish-brown shell. It waves its claws at them angrily when they crouch down beside it, and Katniss laughs again. "See what I mean? Wild and angry."

"Nah just cranky," Cato says. "But now I know what we're having for dinner." And he reaches out and spears it under the shell with the pointy end of the stick he's been using as a fire poker for the last few days.

He's eaten crab countless times in the Capitol, and Katniss has even had it once, but neither of them know what they're doing when it comes to hunting them, and the nasty creatures put up quite a fight. "Little fuckers," Cato mutters as he sucks on his bruised fingers.

They gather a few armfuls of twigs and branches from the edge of the forest and they build a fire right there on the beach and they roast the crabs over it. It's a lot of work, cracking the shells and picking off the meat, but it's totally worth it.

"Soooo delicious," Katniss sighs.

"It is," Cato agrees. "But I wish I had some melted butter and some Chardonnay to go with it."

"What's Chardonnay?"

"A kind of white wine."

"There's my sybarite! I wondered where you'd gone!"

"Your _what_?"

"Sybarite."

"What's that?"

"It's what Cinna calls you. He says it means someone who loves fancy, expensive things."

"There's nothing wrong with _appreciating_ the finer things in life." He feels defensive for some reason.

"No, there's not," she agrees. "I think it's cute."

" _Cute_?" Now he feels even more defensive. "I am _not_ cute."

"Sometimes you are."

"When?"

"When you arrange things by color. When you're putting your tie on. When you hug your mother."

Cato wilts. She's right. He's _cute_.

"There's nothing wrong with it, Cato," she says and reaches out to squeeze his forearm. "Everyone knows how strong and brave you are most of the time. But no one is one thing all the time. We're more complicated than that. And some of us are lucky enough to see the other parts of you. Those other parts are what made me fall in love with you. So own them. You're not like those waves," she says as she points toward the sea. "You've got nothing to prove."

Her words placate him a little. But he's still miffed. So he rolls his eyes and tosses the shell of the leg he's been working on into the fire.

Katniss giggles. "Yeah, definitely not like the waves. You're cranky. Like these little guys," she says as cracks open a claw. "It's cu-"

"Don't even fucking say it," he warns.

" _Cute_ ," she finishes, her face smug.

 _That's it_. "Ohhhh, I'll show you cute."

He's got her pinned to the ground in an instant and he's tickling her, just like he did in the grass in 2.

"Stop!" she squeals. "Stop! You're gonna make me pee."

"Then take it back."

"Fine, I take it back, I take it back! You're not cute!"

He releases her, and she heads for the trees to relieve herself. "Asshole," she scowls.

That's much better. He'll take _asshole_ over _cute_ any day.

xxxxxxxxxx

Once the sun sets they add a few pieces of driftwood to their fire to keep it going a bit longer, and then they crawl into Cato's sleeping bag.

He's almost asleep when Katniss gasps. "Look!" she cries, and his eyes fly open.

"Holy shit," he whispers.

Later, when he asks Beetee about it, he will learn that what they are witnessing is a chemical reaction due to the salt content of the wood, and that the smoke it produces can actually be toxic over time.

But right now all he knows is that the flames twisting around the driftwood are a vivid lavender edged with blue.

He's never seen anything like it. He didn't even know this was possible.

The two of them lay there in silence and watch the purple glow until it burns itself out and then they fall asleep.


	22. Alma Fucking Coin

They're a little more than halfway back to the walls of 7 when Cato hears the _whirring_ noise.

It's a foggy day, and even though it's got to be about noon, the mist hangs thick among the trees.

They can't see more than a few yards in front of them, their canteens are full, and they haven't even touched their stash of packaged food, so they decide to take the rest of the day off and they settle down on their sleeping bags between the massive roots of a particularly solid-looking tree.

Katniss lays down for a nap, but Cato is wide awake and bored, so he pulls out Plutarch's book for the first time on their journey and he opens it with a sigh and he begins to read in the dim light.

He's only a few pages in when he starts to become frustrated. It's about a bunch of talking animals. He doesn't understand. Is this a kid's book or something? What's the point of it? Why the hell did Plutarch give this to him? It's stupid.

"Fuck this shit," he mutters and tosses the book to the ground beside his pack.

Katniss opens one eye sleepily. "What's wrong?"

"That book Plutarch gave me. It's about a bunch of talking pigs and horses and shit. It's stupid."

"Well it's _called_ Animal Farm." And then she goes back to napping.

Cato leans his back against the trunk and tries to join her, but he can't.

God it's so _boring_.

He looks back down at the book, and then he picks it up again.

Really. Even if it is a kid's book, what the hell else is he gonna do?

He manages to get through two chapters and a little way into the third before Katniss wakes up.

"So...how is it?" she asks.

"Still mostly boring but there are some good parts."

"What's it about?"

"The farm animals have rebelled against the farmer and kicked him out and now they're running it themselves."

"Kind of like Panem right now?" she asks.

"Yeah. Not exactly. But a lot of it's similar."

"Huh. Weird."

"Yeah. Weird."

And then he hears it.

At first he thinks it's some kind of bug or maybe one of those hummingbirds, the ones with the ruby-colored throats.

But the sound is too steady, too consistent, too...mechanical.

"Do you hear that?" he whispers to Katniss, who is still a little sleepy.

"Hear what?"

"That whirring noise," he says as he peers into the gloom.

She sits up and rubs her eyes and cocks her head and then she looks up into the trees. "What _is_ that?"

"Exactly. You hear it?"

"No. But what is that?"

He looks up to where she's pointing. It's some kind of spindly black, spider-like creature hovering about fifteen feet above them.

And then all of a sudden it ascends rapidly and disappears.

"What the hell was that?" he breathes. "Some kind of bug?"

"I don't know. But it was creepy. How big do you think it was?"

"Not sure. Maybe about the size your head?"

She shudders. "Creepy," she repeats. "Let's get out of here and find another place to hang out."

She doesn't have to tell him twice. He pulls out the compass and they make their way to the east.

xxxxxxxxxx

A couple of days later they arrive back at the mayor's place and he welcomes them with a laugh.

"You two are filthy!" he exclaims. "Get cleaned up and then we'll have dinner."

They head upstairs and Katniss uses the shower in their room while Cato finds another guest bathroom to use.

He spends the first five minutes of his shower just standing there, reveling in the feel of the hot water on his sore shoulders, and then he takes his time soaping up his body and scrubbing the dirt from his fingernails. When he gets out he flosses his teeth and then he brushes them. Twice. He trims his nails on his fingers and toes. He shaves his face for the first time in three weeks. He gets dressed.

He enters their room, expecting to see Katniss, dressed and combing out her hair. But there's a cloud of steam billowing out from beneath the closed bathroom door, and he can hear the water running.

"Katniss?" he taps on the door. "You alright in there?"

"Yeah."

"You almost done?"

"Yeah."

He settles himself on the bed to wait for her, and then he sees his pack on the floor and he remembers his book and he manages to get all the way through the third chapter by the time she emerges from the bathroom in a plush white robe, her skin rosy and damp.

"Must have been pretty dirty," he says as he looks up from the book.

She laughs. "I was, but also I just really love hot showers. And the mayor's wife brought me all these soaps and things to try. There was this one that was all scratchy and it smelled like brown sugar and oats, and then there was this one that was _soooo_ creamy, she said it was triple-milled and made from goat milk, which I knew you could do, but we always used all of Lady's milk for cheese, but anyway, it smelled amazing," she gushes. "And this shampoo," she continues as she puts a wet strand of hair up to her nose and inhales, "it smells like peppermint and it tingled on my scalp, and then there was this rosemary conditioner and it made it so silky and easy to comb!"

Cato laughs at her. "I don't see why you're so impressed. They had stuff like that in the Capitol. Even fancier. Didn't you use it?"

She wrinkles her nose. "It all smelled so fake and fruity and flowery and...blegh. This stuff is way better. Anyway, how's the book?"

"It's ok. But hurry up and get dressed. I'm _hungry_."

xxxxxxxxxx

Dinner is crab legs.

With melted butter.

And Chardonnay.

"So much better with butter," Katniss whispers. "And this wine…"

"It's from our own grapevines," the mayor tells her proudly.

"It really is good," Cato says.

"I'll send you home with a case," the mayor says. "Where _are_ you living these days?"

"Nowhere in particular," Cato laughs. "I just follow her." He nods his head in Katniss's direction.

xxxxxxxxxx

Later that night, Cato asks the mayor about the purple fire and the weird, spidery thing in the forest.

"Yeah, driftwood fires usually burn that color," the mayor says. "But I don't know why. And I've never seen anything like what you're talking about. I mean we have some pretty big spiders, but none the size of woman's head. Are you sure? I've heard of tarantulas, which are these giant spiders, and I think there are some further to the south, but we don't have them in 7. At least not that I'm aware of."

"Here, get me a piece of paper and a pencil and I'll draw it."

When he's done he shows his sketch to the mayor, but he just shakes his head and hands the paper back to Cato. "Nope. And the legs look too spindly for how big the body is. I don't think that was a tarantula. Strange."

"And it made a _whirring_ noise."

"Whirring?"

"Yeah."

The mayor shakes his head again. "Strange," he repeats.

It is strange. It's more than strange. It's creepy.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Well, where to next?" Katniss asks when they return to their room. "5, don't you think?"

"Really?"

"Of course. You came here with me, didn't you? But if we're gonna go we need to go now, or else wait for the fall. They say the summers there are scorching."

Cato can feel himself starting to get excited.

But he wants to make a brief stop in 3 first, so he can ask Beetee about the purple fire and the weird spider thing.

"What makes you think he'll know the answers?" Katniss asks.

He shrugs. "He might not. But he's the smartest person I've ever met. And I'll bet he can help us get a map of 5. I don't want to go back to the Capitol to ask Plutarch for one. And I know you don't either."

"Alright, sounds like a plan." She yawns and lifts the covers from the bed, and then she moans as she crawls under them. "It feels so good to sleep in a real bed again. And these _sheets_."

"They're Frette, you know."

"They're incredible."

Cato laughs. "Look at you and your triple-milled soaps and your Chardonnay and your sheets. Now who's the syba...syba…"

"Sybarite," she finishes for him with another yawn, her eyes already closed.

xxxxxxxxxx

"A whirring noise?" Beetee asks him the afternoon they arrive in 3. He's already solved the mystery of the driftwood fire. "Like a bug?"

"Yes, but more machine-like."

Beetee frowns. "A giant spider that makes a machine-like whirring noise?"

"Yeah, here, I drew this." And he hands the sketch to Beetee, whose eyes widen in recognition. "You know what it is?"

"I know exactly what it is." His tone is grim. "It's a drone."

Cato feels like he's heard this word used before but he can't remember when. "What's a drone?"

"A machine. That's why it made a _machine_ -like noise."

Cato sits up straight in his chair. Something isn't right here. "What does it do? And why was it in the middle of the forest?"

Beetee sets the sketch down. "A drone is just a term for any type of unmanned aircraft. Doesn't matter what size or shape it is. Sometimes they're used to transport things. Some hovercrafts can be drones if you fly them remotely using a computer program. The parachutes that deliver supplies during the games are technically drones. Snow used drones when he tried to bomb 2 and 11. And when Gloss blackmailed those Peacekeepers, when he threatened their families...he told them we'd use little drones that would explode in their faces. Kind of like a flying grenade. You know what a grenade is?"

Cato feels sick. "Yeah. So you think that drone in 7 was meant to explode in our faces?"

"No, that doesn't make any sense. You said it flew away as soon as you two saw it. If someone was trying to kill you they would have just done it, regardless of whether you saw it or not."

"Well then what the-"

"Sometimes drones don't transport anything at all," Beetee says. "Sometimes they're used for surveillance."

Cato's blood goes cold. "Someone was spying on us."

Beetee nods. "But not just someone."

"No. I know exactly who it was." Oh now Cato's angry. Now he's _really_ angry. So angry he's shaking. "Alma. Fucking. Coin."

xxxxxxxxxx

When he tells Katniss she flips out. She's shaking and crying.

"I have to tell you something," she says through her tears. "I should have told you from the beginning."

"Told me what?"

"Coin...she...when she came to visit me in 3 she threatened my family just like Snow did."

"She threatened them?!"

"Yes! She said that it was my duty to support her because of what she'd done for me and I told her it was Plutarch's people and Gloss and Beetee that rescued me, but then she said that she took my family in and protected them. That she had her people monitor them. That they were _still_ monitoring them. For their _safety_. But she had a tone, you know, that tone! Like the one Snow used to use!"

It makes sense now. Why she told him that they should go to the cabinet meeting. To appease Coin. And now he knows why she was so nervous when Coin brought up 2's secession. She was terrified she'd be forced to make the choice between supporting a plan to go to war against 2 or having her family killed off, and she was relieved when the collective reaction from the others saved her from having to make that choice.

Now that he's made sense of it all, Cato is livid with her. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?!" he roars.

"I'm sorry!" she wails. "But what could you have done about it?! What can you do _now_ about it?!"

"I'm gonna fucking confront her, that's what I'm gonna do!"

"Cato, NO!" she screams. "My family!"

She's right. He's got to calm down, he's got to calm down, he's got to calm down. He's still upset with her for not telling him, but his fear is quickly starting to overtake his anger.

He paces back and forth across the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace.

He feels helpless, he has no idea what to do. He doesn't know where he can take her to get her out of Coin's reach, and even if he does manage to get her somewhere safe, what will that mean for her family?

"We've got to talk to Beetee," he says. "Come on, let's go over there."

xxxxxxxxxx

"She has to be overthrown," Cato says after Katniss repeats her conversation with Coin to the older man.

"I agree," Beetee says. "We'll have to come up with a plan. It's gonna take some time, though, Cato. If Coin is watching you and Katniss, I'm sure she's watching the rest of us."

Beetee's words raise alarm bells in Cato's head. "Do you think she's got one of those drones listening to us now?"

Beetee smiles. "Oh Cato. Who do you think develops all of the surveillance equipment? The drones, the bugs, the cameras? We do, here in 3. And we develop the countermeasures for them. Most houses and buildings are equipped with alarms that will signal us," he points to what looks to be an ordinary smoke detector in the ceiling of his kitchen, "if they detect any type of surveillance. Tony's place is too, because that's where we did all of our planning for the 76th games."

"So then you need to get everyone here. Or we all need to go to Tony's."

"Because that won't raise any suspicions, right?" Beetee says with gentle sarcasm. "My guess is she's tracking our movements even if she isn't listening to us right now. Not just yours and mine, but Gloss, Plutarch, the mayors. It's getting us all together that's the problem. I'm sure we can come up with a workaround." The wheels in his head are already turning. "Maybe if we make sure our phones are clear and find a way to..." he murmurs, and then he snaps out of it. "No matter what it's gonna take some time."

"And in the meantime?" Katniss asks in panic.

"Well if she hasn't hurt your family by now, I doubt she's going to do it. I'm sure the whole reason for that was because you were refusing to attend the trial and she needed you to be there in some form. So she reacted by threatening your family, and she didn't really think any further ahead than that. The rest of us were in full support of her at first, but even by that time, we were starting to see some worrisome things, Plutarch especially. Now that it's clear that none of us are willing to just give her carte blanche, I'm guessing she's working on some other plan to get what she wants. So for now, just stay here in 3. We have the best weapons and the best technology, better than hers. You're safe enough here. I'll find a way to get hold of Plutarch and we'll start working on a plan of our own."

It's enough to satisfy Cato for the time being, and he and Katniss return to their house for the night.

He sleeps surprisingly well, but he's awakened early by Beetee pounding on the front door.

"What is it?" he asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Haven't you seen the news?" Beetee asks. He's shaking.

"It's like 6 o'clock, Beetee! Jesus, no. What's going on?"

"It's Plutarch. He's dead."


	23. Ears Open

An aneurysm.

That's the official cause of Plutarch's death.

Or so they say.

But Cato is suspicious.

xxxxxxxxxx

The funeral will be held four days from now in the Capitol.

Cato doesn't want to go, but Katniss is torn.

"He's done so much for us, and maybe it really _was_ an aneurysm, and I just feel like it's so rude not to pay our respects."

"I know," Cato agrees, "but it could be dangerous."

"You think she'd try to harm one of you?" Beetee asks from the couch.

"I don't know," Cato says. "Probably not. Because I guess it's possible it really was an aneurysm, and if it wasn't and she killed him off it would be pretty ballsy of her to go after another one of us so soon. But still. I think it's too risky. Are you gonna go?"

"Yes. It'll give me the opportunity to talk to Tony and try to come up with a plan."

Cato sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

"Cato," Katniss says. "If we don't go…"

He knows what she's going to say before the words are out of her mouth. "I know, I know. It'll look like something's up. Like we know she's watching us. It might make things even worse. Fuck!" He sighs. "Fine. You go whenever you want," he says to Beetee. "But we aren't leaving until the day before."

xxxxxxxxxx

That night he picks up Plutarch's book and he decides he's going to finish it. He managed to get through two more chapters on the train ride from 7 to 3, and he's halfway done. Only five more chapters to go and he's got three days to do pretty much nothing before they leave for the Capitol.

By this point, he's figured out the theme. One evil leader replacing another. Napoleon replacing Farmer Jones, Coin replacing Snow.

It spurs him on, it motivates him, and even though he hates reading, he spends the entirety of the next day doing it, and he's finished by nightfall.

"I don't get it," he says to Katniss after he tells her how it ends. "I already couldn't stand Coin _before_ Plutarch ever brought this book up to me. I didn't know just how fucking evil she was, but I knew something wasn't right. I didn't need him to tell me that through this," he says as he holds the book up.

"Well what else did he say about it?"

Cato thinks back to that night. "That it was from the time of the ancients and that it had been banned since the uprising, but he had somehow found a copy. That Tony had read it too. And Cinna. And Gloss. And that they loved it."

"Ohhhh!" She lights up, as though she's figured it all out.

"What?"

"It wasn't so much what the book said, I mean, that mattered, but it was that the others had read it and loved it. He was trying to tell you that you had allies, other people who felt the same way. That all of you could rise up against her."

"Why didn't he just say that then?"

Katniss shrugs. "Maybe he knew about the drones and all that and he was worried he was being watched."

And then Cato remembers how Plutarch and Gale had tried to talk Katniss into participating in the trial and the interview before Coin's visit. And how he'd confronted Plutarch about retraumatizing Katniss. He remembers Plutarch's words. _I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place here. I don't quite know how to explain it. Do you understand?_

Maybe Katniss is right. Maybe Plutarch was worried he was being watched.

And then he has a horrifying thought. "Oh no," he whispers. "No." He sits down immediately to avoid passing out.

"What? What's wrong?"

"The drone that spied on us in 7. I was reading this." He holds up the book again. "Do you think...do you think that's why Coin killed him? If she did kill him? I mean, I said the name of the book and that Plutarch gave it to me and everything. And if that drone picked it up...oh god I'm gonna be sick." He can feel himself breaking into a cold sweat, his stomach is in knots, his vision is starting to fade out. "What if it's my fault he's dead?"

And then she's there with a glass of water and a cold cloth against his head and she's _shushing_ him gently. "You have no way of knowing that Cato. First of all, we don't even know if she _did_ kill him. And we don't know if that drone was able to pick anything up, and even if it was, she might have no idea what this book is about, and no way to figure it out. And you were there at that cabinet meeting. He didn't support her at all. He disagreed with her on 2 and he was just as horrified at her idea for 1 as everyone else. He was a threat to her and she knew it before you and I ever even went to 7. And even _then_ , even if she knows what this book is about and it's the reason she decided to kill him, _you_ had no way of knowing you were being watched. There are too many possibilities and none of them are your fault. It's not worth beating yourself up over."

But her words don't do an ounce of good.

It's nice of her to try to comfort him, but, really, she should know better.

She should know that guilt is like grief. Logic doesn't stand a chance against it.

xxxxxxxxxx

When they step off the train they are immediately surrounded by Coin's guard dogs.

"There have been threats made against your lives," one of them says. "We'll need to escort you to headquarters. To ensure your safety."

 _Fuck_. This is not good.

"Threats? Who's threatening us?"

"Rebels from 1."

The stench of bullshit is strong in Cato's nostrils. He sneers at the head guard dog with disgust.

"We're staying at Tony Waterford's," Katniss protests.

"It's not secure enough there. We have a room prepared for you at headquarters. To ensure your safety."

"All of my suits are at his place," Cato says. "I need to go get one." He's not lying. Now that his townhouse and his mansion in 2 have been destroyed, he's taken to storing most of his possessions, which consist of little more than a couple of weeks' worth of clothes and Brutus's drawings and colored pencils, at his buddy's house.

But really he just wants to try to get a few moments alone with Tony.

He's shot down immediately. "We'll send someone to get it for you."

xxxxxxxxxx

When they arrive at headquarters, they learn that Gloss is also staying there. And Beetee, who had left 3 the day after news of Plutarch's death broke, is there too. Each is surrounded by a unit of Coin's dogs.

Cato understands immediately. Coin is making it impossible for them to go see Tony or to gather together in private.

As they pass each other in the hallway, Cato gives Gloss a mirthless grin. "Threats have been made against your life too?"

"Yep. I need to be escorted at all times. To ensure my safety."

xxxxxxxxxx

Late that evening, a guard knocks on the door to the room he's been deposited in.

When he opens it, she hands him a pair of leather dress shoes and a garment bag. He unzips it to find a white dress shirt, a dark gray tie, and a black suit he's never seen before. It's well tailored and it looks to be the right size, but he knows his suits like the back of his hand, and this isn't one of them.

"This isn't my suit," he says to the guard and holds it out towards her.

She raises her eyebrows. "It looks like it'll fit you just fine."

"I want one of _my_ suits."

"Tough shit," she snaps and slams the door in his face.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next morning is Plutarch's funeral.

Boggs and some of his subordinates escort Cato and Katniss and Beetee and Gloss to the City Center, where they will be stationed along with the other victors who have come to pay their respects to the late revolutionary.

"There's been another threat on your lives, but we have this area secured," Boggs says to the four of them. "So you'll need to stay in it. When it's time to leave for the cemetery, stay here. We'll come get you and escort you there."

It's a beautiful ceremony. Long, but beautiful. It celebrates Plutarch Heavensbee as a champion of freedom, a tactical genius, a national hero.

But Cato can't concentrate on any of it. Because he knows he's made a terrible mistake. These guard dogs aren't here to ensure his and Katniss's safety. They're here to herd them to slaughter.

xxxxxxxxxx

The cemetery where Plutarch will be buried is beautiful. A broad avenue runs through the center of it, lined on each side by wise old trees whose leaves meet in the middle to form a green canopy overhead. The plots, with their quartz monuments and marble mausoleums, are spread out and interspersed with rose bushes that no one has thought to tend to since the revolution, so they're slightly overgrown and wild-looking.

For all its beauty, Cato can't imagine that Plutarch would actually _want_ to be buried here, among the Capitolites and bureaucrats and gamemakers he despised so much.

As they make their way toward the burial plot, he's almost sick with fear. It's sunny and warm, and he feels stifled and sweaty in the suit he's been given to wear, which seems to be made of some annoyingly heavy, unbreathable synthetic blend. But it's the eerie stillness of the cemetery that really bothers him, the almost surreal quality to the air. Every step he takes feels heavier and heavier, as though he and Katniss are walking not to the place where Plutarch's bones will turn to dust, but to their own execution.

And then, one of Boggs's subordinates, following a little too closely on Katniss's heel, bumps into her left shoulder.

It doesn't hurt her at all, but it sends Cato over the edge. He's terrified that one of these guard dogs is going to assassinate her. "Back the fuck _off_ ," he warns through clenched teeth and then he gives the guard a good shove.

And then Boggs is there in front of him, his face mere inches from Cato's, his tranq gun jammed into his ribs. "Hey. Calm down." His voice is quiet, so quiet Cato can barely hear it, but his tone is a menacing one, his expression is hard. "We're only doing this for your own safety. But," and his voice lowers even more, "if for some reason we leave you unattended, keep your ears open."

 _Wait, what?_

He looks into Bogg's eyes and he can read what's in there plain as day. In spite of his clenched jaw and his flared nostrils, his eyes are almost pleading. Then he backs up. "Am I clear?" he asks, his volume back in normal range now.

It's a warning. Boggs is trying to warn him.

 _Ears open_? He's heard the saying _keep your eyes peeled_ before. But _ears open_?

Cato gives him a curt nod and a glare. He places his hand on the small of Katniss's back and ushers her forward.

It is uncertainty that has made him fearful and edgy. But Boggs has just make things crystal clear. Some kind of attempt will be made on his or Katniss's life right here, in this graveyard, probably sometime in the next hour.

His fear has dissipated, and now he's in battle mode. Hunger Games mode.

Boggs is walking beside him, a couple of feet away, and the sound of every one of his footsteps on the gravel path sends the same message to Cato: _Warning. Warning. Warning._

The crowd of mourners surrounding Plutarch's plot is a large one, and Cato and Katniss are shown to a section toward the back of it, beneath the shade of a maple tree. Cato's first instinct is to walk away from the area immediately, to choose another spot to watch Plutarch's burial, but when he turns and looks at Boggs and the group of guard dogs who have assembled behind them, he knows they won't let him.

"I can't see anything and I can't hear what's going on," Katniss whispers.

"Doesn't matter," he whispers back curtly. "Don't worry about it."

He can't pay attention to the words they're saying up there over Plutarch's coffin. He's too busy scanning the area around them and peering up into the branches above, trying to ascertain where the threat is most likely to come from.

He hears soft footsteps on the grass behind him and turns around to find their armed escort retreating. He watches as they fan out and search among the rose bushes and behind the grave markers. To the average onlooker, it would seem that they're securing the area and looking for rebels from 1, but Cato knows this is all for show.

And then he hears it. The _whirring_ noise. Just above his head.

Like some kind of bug or maybe one of those hummingbirds, the ones with the ruby-colored throats.

But the sound is too steady, too consistent, too...mechanical.

For a split second Cato's world freezes. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

 _Leave you unattended_.

 _Ears open_.

 _Explode in their faces._

 _Flying grenade_.

He throws his arms around Katniss's waist and hurls her as far away from the tree as he can and then he takes two running steps and leaps on top of her to shield her body with his own.

And just as he hits the ground, the world around him explodes.


	24. The Heavensbee Book Club

His ears are ringing.

The back of his head and neck are burning.

His shoulder blades and his spine, his ass and his hamstrings and his calves, they all sting in what feels like a hundred different places.

But when he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, there's his Katniss, his little tornado, shaken up, but whole and unharmed.

And so for the moment, nothing else matters.

xxxxxxxxxx

The explosion, though loud, was not powerful enough to cause any lasting damage to his ears.

The hair on the back of his head has been singed off and he's got first-degree burns on his scalp and his neck.

Several pieces of shrapnel have embedded themselves into the skin on the back of his body, and so the most annoying part of all of this is the half hour he spends laid out on his stomach on the operating table in the medical clinic at Coin's headquarters, buck naked, while a team of medical personnel pluck the pieces from him with tweezers and wipe down each little cut with an antiseptic.

They give him a tetanus shot, a vial of antibiotics, and a pair of blue cotton scrubs to put on and then one of the doctors tells him he can go, but she looks confused.

"What is it?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_ ," she says. "It's just...strange. You weren't that far away from the explosion, but somehow...somehow the shrapnel...you should have been hurt more, maybe even killed. You should have been burnt right through your clothing. That shrapnel should have found its way further into your body. Thank goodness no one was killed, but there were Victors who were further away than you from the spot of the blast and they're more seriously injured. But look at this." And she picks up his suit jacket from where it's been laid out on the back of a chair.

Holy shit.

If he thought there'd been a lot of shrapnel in his skin…

Hundreds of pieces are sticking out of the cloth, and when he examines the back of his suit pants, he finds the same thing.

"Do you have a pair of scissors?" he asks her.

When she hands them to him, he cuts open the silky lining on the inside to find a thin layer, probably only a few millimeters thick, of sturdy, woven fabric. He runs his fingers lightly over it.

"Careful," the doctor breathes, just as he accidentally cuts himself on the razor sharp edge of one of the pieces of shrapnel embedded in there.

"It reminds me of parachute cord, the way it's woven together. Or climbing rope," he murmurs as she wipes down his cut finger with an antiseptic pad.

"Whatever it is, it's strong stuff," she says. "And something tells me if we tried to light it on fire we wouldn't have much success."

xxxxxxxxxx

When he returns to headquarters, he's immediately taken in to see Alma Coin, who is surrounded by her "advisors." They're all there: Tony and Beetee and Gloss, along with all of the mayors. And Katniss, who is still shaking with the trauma of the day.

"Cato," Coin says when he walks through the door. "I'm so glad you're ok, and I'm sorry we failed you."

But he can see it in her eyes. He knows that he and Katniss were never supposed to make it out of there alive. They were supposed to die, and in one fell swoop, Coin would get rid of two of her biggest political threats and, by blaming their deaths on the people of 1, convince the rest of her advisors to declare war on the entire district.

His hands are itching to snap her neck.

But he knows that cold, calculated anger is more useful than white-hot rage.

So he pretends that he suspects her of nothing.

"What happened?!" he demands instead.

"A group of rebels from 1, hiding in the bushes" she says. "They threw some type of grenade at you. We're still examining the pieces of the explosive and the shrapnel, but it appears to be homemade. The work of amateurs."

"Pretty effective for amateurs if you ask me," the mayor of 4 mutters under her breath.

"Did these imbeciles at least catch them?" he asks, gesturing toward the armed guards and ignoring their death glares.

"Yes," Coin says coolly. "They did. There are five of them. We have them in custody now and we're planning to interrogate them this evening."

"I want to see them," he insists.

"Of course, but I don't know that right now is the time. After we've questioned them, after we know a little bit more."

"How could you let this happen?! I thought your people were on it! What was the point of surrounding us with all those guard dogs," he points at Boggs and his crew, "if they were too incompetent to do their jobs?"

"May I remind you," she says with narrowed eyes, "that we discussed this a few weeks ago. How dangerous I felt 1 was. And as I recall, many of our friends around this table advised me to adopt security measures that were far less strict than those I would have preferred to implement. I think you're blaming the wrong person here."

"Well now we know," Cato says, slamming his fist on the table. "And I vote we obliterate those animals. All of them!"

The whole room is paralyzed for a few seconds, and then, "Cato!" Katniss gasps.

Gloss leaps to his feet. "Are you _insane_?!" he cries, just like he did the day Coin proposed her idea for a final Hunger Games.

"No," Cato says, looking around the room at all of their shocked faces. "I'm perfectly sane. You think it'll stop here, huh? You think it's just five random, crazy fucks? No! It's not! Who will they target next? You?" he points at Tony. "You?" he points at Gloss. "After all, they turned on you."

Gloss is so enraged he can't speak.

And then he turns to Alma Coin. "And you. You might be the biggest target of all."

She tries to maintain a serious demeanor, but Cato can see how pleased she secretly is. This is going as well as it can for her right now, at least considering the circumstances. He's placing the blame squarely on 1, giving her his support in going to war against them, and he's falling in line, he's trying to bring the others along with him.

Now he just needs someone to say it...anyone...anyone will do. _Come on. Please. Anyone._

"I understand you're angry," says the mayor of 3 quietly. "And you have every right to be. But I'm not so sure the people of Panem will support a war against 1."

 _Yes! There it is!_

It's exactly the opportunity he needs.

"Ha! Yes they will. They love us, they love me and Katniss. Once they find out this was 1, they'll be in full support of a war. They're gonna want to see an interview with us about the attack right? They'll do whatever we tell them to. They're like sheep."

Tony sits up a little straighter. Beetee is regarding him thoughtfully. Even a few of the mayors are showing signs of understanding, their eyes narrowed, their heads cocked ever so slightly, and Cato realizes for the first time that Plutarch probably shared his book not just with Tony and Gloss, but with the leaders of the more rebellious districts too.

But Gloss is still too livid to catch on. "NO!" he roars and now he's rounding the table and charging up to Cato. "NO! You can't blame an entire district for the actions of five people and who even says it really was-"

 _Oh no. Oh no no no no._ If Gloss goes down that road, it'll be him Coin goes after next.

So Cato cuts him off.

"Oh yes I can!" he yells back, his hands digging into Gloss's shoulders. "And how am I supposed to know you weren't in on it? Huh?" He shoves his friend into the wall. Hard. "Maybe you're a fucking animal just like the rest of them."

He fixes Gloss with his eyes, trying to will him to understand, but he's still too angry and the two of them are shoving each other and Katniss and the others are yelling at them to stop.

And now the guards are moving toward them. Cato's got maybe five seconds left to get his point across to Gloss, so he gets him into a bearhug and he pins him against the wall. "Work with me," he hisses into Gloss's ear under the cover of everyone shouting as the two of them struggle against each other. "I have a plan."

The guards break in between the two of them and haul them in opposite directions, and Cato stares at Gloss, searching for it...

And then, there it is. The spark of recognition in Gloss's eyes. He continues to struggle against the guards for a bit, but eventually, he lets them shove him down into his chair and he crosses his arms over his chest and shoots Cato a murderous look.

But he knows now. He knows.

Coin bangs on the table. "Calm down! Everyone calm down!" The room goes silent. "It's been a stressful day and I think we could all use a rest. You two," she says, pointing at Cato and then at Katniss, "I'll have my media team set up an interview for tomorrow afternoon. We'll begin discussing our attack strategy first thing in the morning."

Gloss buries his hands in his hair. "Strategy?! Are you all gonna stand for this?!" His tone is full of disbelief.

It's Tony who speaks first. "I'm not happy about it, but I have to say...I think it may be necessary. To discourage any other attacks of this sort."

"Pig," Gloss accuses, his face full of defeat. "I thought you were better than this. But you're just a fucking war pig. And the rest of you?" he asks, looking around the room. "Are you gonna sit back and let them do this?!"

And so it begins.

Katniss agrees with Tony. And Boggs, of course, speaks up in favor of it next. Then it's the mayor of 4, then 3, then Beetee, and then the mayors of 12, 11, and 8. Within the space of ten minutes, they've convinced the other districts to declare war on 1.

xxxxxxxxxx

Later that evening, when it's just the two of them, Cato picks up the black sheath dress that Katniss wore to Plutarch's funeral and has, of course, balled up and tossed on the floor.

"You really should take better care of your clothes," he scolds. "This is a nice dress." He holds it by its shoulders and shakes it out. It feels a little heavy. "Quality. I don't know if I've ever seen you in it before."

Katniss rolls her eyes. "It's just a plain black dress. Nothing special about it. And you've never seen it before. Cinna had it delivered here for me to wear today."

Cato smiles. "Aaah. It's a little heavy though, don't you think, for the time of year. Weren't you hot in it?"

But she just shrugs. She's not really into clothes. "A little I guess. But I just put on what Cinna tells me to."

"Hm." Cato examines the dress for a few seconds longer. He rubs the cloth between his fingers, and he swears he feels it. Just beneath the silky inner lining. A hidden layer, probably only a few millimeters thick, of sturdy, woven fabric. And something tells him if he tried to light it on fire he wouldn't have much success.

xxxxxxxxxx

They make all kinds of plans for attacking 1 the next day.

Gloss is not invited, of course. Instead he's being detained by some of Boggs's men so he doesn't go off and warn his district.

When they're done, Cato goes off with Tony, who has brought along a suit and tie for him (one of his own, this time), to get ready for his interview.

"How do I look?" he asks as he adjusts the knot of his tie in the mirror.

"Lookin' good man. At least from the front. From the back though...just don't turn around."

Cato laughs and runs his hand carefully over the tender skin on the back of his skull. "You think my hair will grow back?"

"Oh yeah. For sure. It's about time to go on. You ready?"

"Yeah. But you know, I've never been very...what's the word...what's the word for it?"

"I have no idea," Tony says.

"You know, good at talking."

"Articulate?"

"That's it. Right there. I've never been very articulate. I hate these interviews."

"I thought you wanted to do this."

"I do. I think it's absolutely necessary. But I still wish I was as articulate as you."

xxxxxxxxxx

They position themselves at various points around the press room. President Coin. Tony. Beetee. The mayors.

Cato and Katniss take their seats across from the woman Coin has assigned to interview them about the attack.

When they're done, the camera will pan over to the presidential podium and, surrounded by all of her advisors, Coin will make her declaration of war.

Or at least that's the plan.

But the moment they go live, Cato and Katniss rise from their seats and Tony Waterford takes their place, leaving the poor interviewer completely bewildered. The two of them don't walk off-camera, though. Instead, they stand behind Tony as the other advisors, including Gloss, join them.

Just off-camera, Cato can see that Coin is looking around frantically for Boggs. By the time she finds him, Tony has already begun speaking to the people of Panem. And when she motions to her right-hand man to _do something about this_ , he sets his mouth in a grim line and shakes his head firmly. He signals to his crew to _stand down_ , and then he too joins the others behind Tony.

Coin takes a different tactic, motioning to one of her producers to cut the camera and stop the broadcast. But one of the guard dogs, the one who bumped Katniss's shoulder the day before, in fact, is standing right beside the cameraman, and the look on his face says it all: _Keep rolling if you know what's good for you, my friend._

And when Cato glances at Beetee from the corner of his eye, he can tell by the grin on the older man's face that Tony's got his people in place to override the system and make sure that the broadcast continues.

Years later, when they're old and gray and most of the members of the group that will come to be known as the _Heavensbee Book Club_ are dead, Tony Waterford will pour Cato Hadley a whiskey and remind him of the day, so long ago, just before Katniss was rescued from Snow, when he called himself _useless_ and _worthless_ and _too fucking dumb_ to be included in their plans.

And then, with a laugh, he'll point out how Cato, singlehandedly and on-the-spot, devised a plan to overthrow Coin and then managed to communicate that plan to his allies right under her nose by using a few key words.

But right now, as Tony Waterford explains everything to the people of Panem, and as Boggs's guards take Coin into custody, Cato Hadley isn't thinking about any of that.

He's looking down at the top of Katniss's head and thinking that he doesn't care if he lives the most boring, mundane, monotonous life from here on out.

As long as he never sees in her danger again, he'll die a happy man.


	25. Mia Topolina

**A/N: Disclaimer: I know very little about Italy and I have never been there, so I apologize if I butcher the language, give misinformation, or otherwise offend out of ignorance.**

 **This is it. The last chapter, apart from one more teeny one, which is really an epilogue. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it!**

xxxxxxxxxx

They're welcomed with open arms in Italy, where they have been celebrities, without even knowing it, since the uprising against Snow.

Brutus had circled Rome on the map in his atlas, and so that's where they start off.

They are invited to stay at the Prime Minister's official residence, and given a bedroom with a gilded ceiling and walls paneled in silk that looks like liquid gold.

"I hate it," Katniss whispers when they're left alone to settle in. "I can't breathe. My soul feels stifled by all of this...this…" She waves her hands around inarticulately.

"...gold?" Cato finishes for her. It's a bit much for him too. He actually feels like something heavy is pressing down on him.

So they haul the mattress out onto the balcony off of their room and they spend their first night in Italy sleeping under the stars.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day they ask if they can see the big round building off in the distance. The one that looks like it's falling apart.

The government official tasked with showing them a good time grimaces and looks concerned.

"What?" Katniss asks.

"Are you familiar with what the Colosseum is?" he asks. "And gladiators? Have you heard of those?"

"No." They both shake their heads.

So he takes a deep breath and explains it to them, clearly bracing himself for them to be offended.

But Cato can't help snorting and then Katniss giggles and within seconds the two of them are rolling around on the floor laughing.

It's absolutely perfect. It is _so_ fitting, and Cato wonders if somehow Brutus knew about gladiators and the Colosseum.

"Now you _have_ to show us," Katniss says when they finally calm down.

"Yeah," Cato agrees. "We'll be the first real gladiators to set foot in there in like twenty-five hundred years!"

His comment sends Katniss into another fit of giggles.

The government official rolls his eyes and sighs, but he calls for a driver to take them to the Colosseum.

xxxxxxxxxx

That night they are served veal saltimbocca for dinner. It's fried up lightly with something that kind of reminds Cato of ham (they tell him it's called prosciutto) and some sage leaves and it's incredible.

And the wine they serve with it…Cato's never had anything like it.

The Prime Minister calls her chef out to thank him for the delicious meal, and Katniss asks the chef how he makes it. But he doesn't speak their language, and so the Prime Minister translates, and all of a sudden the two of them have been issued an invitation to a private cooking lesson the next evening. Cato is not thrilled, and he's pretty sure Katniss isn't either, but he doesn't want to be rude, so he nods and says _grazie_ , which he has learned means _thank you_.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day they're taken to the Vatican, which they learn is considered its own nation, right there in the middle of Rome.

"Kind of like 2 now that they've seceded!" Katniss says.

They've never heard of God or Catholicism or Christianity, or religion at all for that matter, but a nice man called _Il Papa_ explains the basic idea to them and gives them each a book, printed in English, that he calls _The Bible_ , and then he sends them to look at the ceiling of the Sistene Chapel.

They just stand there for several minutes, their mouths open wide as they stare up at it.

"Do you believe in this God he was talking about?" Cato whispers.

"I don't know," she whispers back. "Do you?"

"I think so. Maybe not that exactly," and he points to the section where God is reaching out to Adam. "But I think there's something out there."

Xxxxxxxxxx

That night the Prime Minister's chef brings them into his kitchen and begins his demonstration.

Katniss watches politely as she sips on a glass of wine, but Cato is fascinated.

He wants to do it himself, and somehow, after lots of gesturing back and forth, he manages to communicate this, and so with a delighted grin, the chef motions him to the other side and hands him the meat mallet.

His favorite part is making the sauce.

When he's all done he plates it up and hands it to Katniss along with a fork, and he's proud to give her a mouthgasm for the second time in his life.

xxxxxxxxxx

When they return to their room, they haul the mattress out onto the balcony again, and then Katniss reaches into her pocket and pulls out a little hunk of cheese, which Cato by now recognizes as _pecorino romano_.

"I brought us a snack," she says with a grin.

Cato doesn't remember seeing the chef give her anything. "Where did you get that?"

Her face takes on a guilty look and Cato bursts into laughter.

"It was just sitting out," she says defensively.

"You little thief!" he teases her with a tickle on the ribs. "You little mouse!"

xxxxxxxxxx

They stay in Rome for a few weeks, and Cato is surprised to find that his favorite part of this whole adventure, other than eating and cooking and drinking wine, is learning the language.

He loves the way it sounds, the way it rolls off of everyone's tongues, and so on the fourth day they get him someone to tutor him, a nice little old lady named Signora Alderisi, and he spends at least a couple of hours a day with her.

He doesn't know anything about learning other languages, but Signora Alderisi seems surprised at how quickly he picks it up. When she asks him about it, he just shrugs. "It just makes sense to me," he tells her, because he doesn't know how to explain it.

After that, he tries to speak in Italian as much as he can, only resorting to English when he has to (which is still a lot of the time).

"No, say it in your language," he says to the well-meaning bureaucrats and magnates and celebrities who speak English fluently. "I want to learn."

By the time they leave for Florence, which is where everyone is telling them they should go next, he's made a lot of progress. He's not fluent or even anything close, but he's not like Katniss, who panics if anyone says more than two words to her in Italian.

She has learned to say _thank you, please, hello, goodbye, more wine, more cheese_ and _where is the bathroom._ The last one never helps because she can't understand the directions they give her and they have to walk her there anyway, but _more wine_ and _more cheese_ seem to have served her well so far.

On his last day with Signora Alderisi, he realizes that he doesn't know how to say _mouse_ yet.

" _Topo_ ," she says with a laugh. "But why _mouse_? Why not...oh, I don't know... _leopard_ or _swan_ or some more glamorous animal?"

"Katniss. She loves cheese. She's like a little mouse."

"Ah, then you need to call her your _topolina_."

"Mia topolina," he says with a grin.

"Si."

xxxxxxxxxx

Florence is an entirely different experience for them.

Katniss explains to the mayor that, while she and Cato appreciate his offer to house them at his mansion, they're looking for an experience that's a little different, and that she hopes he isn't offended.

He's not at all offended, it turns out, and he finds them a stone cottage just on the outskirts of the city, overlooking an olive grove.

It's small, with two stories and a wrought iron balcony off of the bedroom. There's nothing even remotely fancy about it, but it's airy and tranquil and charmingly rustic and it has running water and electricity so it's perfect.

The mayor is a little embarrassed by how sparsely furnished it is, and offers to have some pieces delivered.

"No, grazie," Cato says. "E abbastanza." _No, thank you. This is enough._

"At least let me get you a proper bed," he insists as he gestures toward the mattress lying directly on the stone floor, which is literally the only thing in the room.

"It's fine," Katniss tells him with a smile. "I kind of like it this way. I don't think we need anything at the moment."

"Apetta un minuto," Cato breaks in. "Mi _piacerebbe_ una cosa…" _Wait a minute. I_ _would like_ _one thing_ ….

xxxxxxxxxx

"You're kidding, right?" Katniss asks when the courier arrives with a new set of Frette linens and a gray cashmere blanket.

"Nope." Cato grins and tucks the sheets over the mattress and then he lays the blanket on the foot of the bed.

Katniss places the ivory pillar candles that she has found in the storage closet all over the bedroom and lights them and then they open a bottle of wine and they sit on their bed and watch the sunset through the open balcony door.

xxxxxxxxxx

They stay there for two months.

Most mornings they go their separate ways.

Some days Katniss goes hunting for pheasants and hare and wild boar with a few of the locals who have taken to her. She doesn't use guns because she doesn't like them. She sticks with her bow and arrow and her snares, and she sells her kills to a nearby butcher so they can have some money of their own instead of continuing to rely solely on the generosity of their host country.

On other days she helps out in the nearby olive grove, and sometimes she even goes foraging for white truffles with an old one-armed man and his hog. She tells Cato that every once in awhile he speaks a few words to her in Italian and sometimes she'll say something in English but neither of them can understand the other, so for the most part they pass the time in friendly silence.

No matter how she spends her time, she always comes home smelling like the sun instead of the rain, her skin tan and burnished and still warm from the heat of the day, and he can hardly keep his mouth from her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she asks as she tries to push him off. "I'm all gross and sweaty."

"No you're not," he says, his words muffled against her skin. "You're delicious."

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato spends most of his time learning to cook like the Italians. There are several prominent chefs in Florence who are more than happy to teach him their craft. Almost every day, one of them comes by the house with a basket full of fresh ingredients to teach him to make beef carpaccio or fresh pasta with vodka sauce.

One day after they've been in Florence for a couple of weeks he learns to make risotto, and just as he's finishing up, Katniss returns from her first day of truffle hunting.

"You gotta try this," he says to her and holds out a spoonful of his new favorite dish.

"What is it?"

"It's rice and you cook it really slowly in broth and wine. But you only add a little bit at a time and it gets all creamy and rich and-well-here. Try it."

"Mmmmm," she says once she's had her first taste. "It's sooo rich!"

"Yeah. There's Parmesan in there too."

"You found some truffles?" the chef asks her.

She nods and produces three.

The chef gasps with delight and takes one from her. "May I?"

"Well I sure as hell don't know what to do with it. So, yeah, have at it."

The chef shows Cato how to shave pieces of the truffle overtop of the risotto. "Try it now," he says.

It's incredible, and the two of them finish off the entire batch that night after the chef leaves and wind up with bellyaches.

"This is worse than my hangover after 1," Katniss moans.

xxxxxxxxxx

One day they decide to go shopping in the city. Cato wants Katniss to see for herself why he fusses over Italian leather shoes.

She's unimpressed until they wind up at a place called Tod's. And then she _oohs_ and _aahs_ over a pair of loafers. She flexes her feet in them with satisfaction.

They come in just about every color. She could choose buttersoft cobalt leather or shiny patent red.

But no.

Tan suede. That's what she picks.

Of course she does. Because she's Katniss.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Really?"

"What?" She scowls.

"All these colors and you pick tan?"

"What's wrong with tan?"

He shakes his head and sighs. "Nothing." _I love you_.

xxxxxxxxxx

She's much more enthused over Frette; she loves the feel of that gray cashmere throw against her skin.

Unlike Tod's, Frette does _not_ have one in just about every color. Cato assumes this won't be a problem. After all, she chose tan shoes. A cream or chocolate colored blanket should be just fine.

But no.

She sighs as she runs her hand over the soft cashmere. "You don't have any green ones?"

They trip over themselves in their rush to reassure her. They'll have one for her in a week. What specific shade of green is she looking for?

"Dark. Like the forest."

Cato raises an eyebrow at her. "Really?"

"What?" She scowls.

"You chose the most boring shoes but now you want a green blanket?"

"They didn't have forest green shoes at Tod's or I would have picked them," she points out.

He shakes his head and sighs. _I love you_.

xxxxxxxxxx

One day a pastry chef that Cato met at one of the numerous dinner parties they're invited to comes and teaches him to make cannoli.

"You gotta try this," he says later that night when Katniss comes home.

"What is it?"

"Cannoli. It means little tube. It's a dessert. It's from Sicily originally." He holds one out toward her mouth, and puts his free hand underneath her chin to catch the crumbs.

She doesn't make a sound as she takes a bite, but her eyes roll to the back of her head.

"Good?"

"Mmm-hmm. Heyyyy!" she complains as he finishes off the rest of it.

"Relax. I made a dozen." He points to the platter he's laid them out on.

"I only see eight there. Your math is a little off."

"I may have eaten three already."

They polish them all off that night and end up with bellyaches.

"This is worse than the risotto," Cato moans.

xxxxxxxxxx

One day she comes rushing into the house with a large paper bag in her hands. "Look!" she cries, and dumps its contents onto the table. What looks to be several bars of soap wrapped in thick, gilded paper tumble out.

"Smell this," she says as she tosses him one wrapped in white.

He gasps as he inhales. _Gardenia_.

"Yeah. I got a bunch of 'em for your mom. And I got my mom and Prim some that smell like rose and violet and pomegranate. And you should _see_ this place. It's called Santa Maria Novella. The ceiling is painted and has gold trim and everything is in these beautiful old wood cabinets with glass doors!"

"Did you buy yourself anything?"

"I got three of these." And she hands him a little olive green box with gold lettering. _Sapone d'olio d'oliva_.

All those fancy girly smells and she chose olive oil.

Of course she did. Because she's Katniss.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Really?"

"What?" She scowls.

He opens his mouth to tease her about her plain taste, but then he realizes that he doesn't really want her to smell like roses or violets or pomegranate. He just wants her to smell like _her_. Like an early summer rainstorm. Or like the sun after she's spent the day outside in Florence.

"Nothing," he says. "I love you."

xxxxxxxxxx

Every night they sit at the little table and chairs on their balcony and drink a glass of wine or two as the sun dips beneath the olive trees.

She colors in last night's sketch while he draws a new one for her to work on tomorrow.

Sometimes he brings a little chunk of asiago or mozzarella or gorgonzola upstairs and then, once he's done sketching, he feeds it to her bit by bit.

"Ti amo, mia topolina," he tells her. _I love you, my little mouse_.

xxxxxxxxxx

About a week before they leave, a storm blows in, so instead of sitting on the balcony as usual, Katniss lights the candles and they snuggle up, her back against his chest, to watch the rain and lightning and listen to the thunder.

After a few minutes though, she rolls over to face him and kisses him on the mouth. He smiles against her lips and strokes her hair and returns her kiss, but when he pulls back she wraps her leg around his hip and pushes herself into him, and when he looks into her eyes he sees a hunger there that he recognizes from that night so many months ago on the train.

He can feel himself starting to grow hard, so he tries to pull away from her gently, but she holds on. "Katniss," he whispers. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Her face falls. "You don't want to?"

She sounds so disappointed that it makes his chest hurt.

"Are you kidding? Can't you feel that?" he says with a tender smile as he rocks against her ever so slightly.

"Then what's wrong?"

"I'm just worried about you, that's all. Everything they did to you, everything that happened...what if this brings it all back?" _What if I hurt you_?

She studies his face in the candlelight and then she says something that surprises him.

"I could punch you in the jaw, right?"

"What?"

"I could punch you in the jaw. Or I could do this." And she caresses his cheek with the tips of her fingers. "Either way, I touched your face."

"No, that's not the same thing at all."

"Exactly. And this," she says as she pushes herself into him again, "is not the same as what they did to me. It's not the same thing at all."

Her words remind him of that night in 4 when he sat on the back deck with Annie Cresta. _Do you understand the difference now,_ she'd asked him, _between fucking and making love?_

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Please Cato," Katniss whispers, her lips against his forehead.

He nods and then he opens his eyes and gives her another tender smile. "Roll onto your back."

Her eyes light up and she does as he says.

He goes slowly.

He explores.

He pays attention to the signals she gives him.

He listens to her breathing and to the sounds that she makes.

He feels the way her body moves in his hands.

When he enters her, he takes his time and he focuses on making her feel good.

He forgets about himself entirely.

And then, just as she cries out and clenches around him, her body shaking, his own orgasm comes up on him out of nowhere.

He doesn't understand at first, but as Katniss drifts down from her high and whispers _that was incredible_ into his chest, he realizes what's just happened.

He has found his own pleasure in that of his Katniss, his little tornado, his topolina.


	26. Things Cato Likes

If you ask Cato what he likes, he'll probably shrug and give you a short list of things like _crab legs_ and _Frette linens_ and _when things are clean and organized_ and then he'll find a reason to end the conversation because, quite frankly, he doesn't like to talk to people he doesn't know very well.

But the truth is that he likes a lot of things, too many things to list, in fact, and so here is just a small sampling of things Cato likes:

He likes to see his wife in her black silk robe, with bare feet and legs, her hair loose around her face, a mug of hot cocoa in her hand. (But what he _really_ likes is the sight of her in one of his shirts, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the buttons undone).

He likes the curve of her waist. How it dips down between her ribcage and her hipbones when she lays on her side. How good it feels under his palm.

He likes the silky slip of her hair against his jaw.

He likes when she invites him to join her upstairs in the tub in their house in 3 to "stargaze." (He makes sure she sees stars alright, but not the ones in the sky).

He likes the sound of her voice as she sings _Deep In the Meadow_ to their 3-year-old daughter, whose name is Violet. It reminds him of silk, soft and hushed and smooth and dry.

He likes to make french toast for his family in the mornings (he now understands that _french_ means "from France," and that in that country, which he and Katniss have visited twice, they call it _pain perdu_ and they eat it for dessert instead of breakfast).

He likes to frame his daughter's crayon drawings and hang them in the hallway and the dining room and the kitchen. (He is of the firm opinion that he possesses the finest art collection in all of Panem).

He pretends to be annoyed whenever his wife rummages around in the spice cabinet, but secretly he likes it because then he gets to spend a rather pleasant ten minutes or so reorganizing and putting all of his jars back in their proper places. The cinnamon next to the nutmeg, the turmeric next to the cumin.

He also feigns annoyance whenever Violet gets her little paws on his colored pencils and mixes them up, but he feels immense satisfaction each time he puts the Chrome Oxide Green back in its place next to the Juniper Green.

He does _not_ like when Violet has an earache, but when she does, he likes that he knows exactly what to do.

He coaxes her up onto his lap and he rocks lazily but steadily back and forth, back and forth, patting her back slowly, rhythmically, in time with the motion of the chair, until she falls asleep, and when she wakes a couple of hours later, her earache is gone.

He wonders if, years from now, she will remember this. The exact rhythm of the rocking and the patting. How her father smelled like bergamot and cedar and white pepper.

He has decided that he'll ask her someday. And he's already told his mother about it.

Because he no longer cares that it's not the kind of thing that men from 2 talk about.


End file.
